


The Value of Royal Blood (Dark Version)

by Lindira



Series: Royal Blood [1]
Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Abuse, Dark, Despair, Imprisonment, Kink Meme, Milking, Multi, Non Consensual, Psychological Torture, Sexual Content, Starvation, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-17
Updated: 2013-01-04
Packaged: 2017-11-21 09:31:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 18
Words: 28,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/596181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lindira/pseuds/Lindira
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One false step, and the Landsmeet was lost. Execution would have been a kindness, compared to what Anora has planned for Alistair.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> _**WARNING:** This is a Darkfic. This story contains imprisonment, torture/violence, rape/non-con, despair, psychological abuse, and major character death. If you have a problem reading about any of these subjects and/or if these are triggering for you, for your own sake, please do not read ahead._
> 
>  
> 
> Notes: Most of this story was written as catharsis for me whenever I was having a bad day/week/whatever over the past couple years. And it shows. Though I've dealt with dark subject matter before, this is far beyond what you'd find in my usual work. When I found a kmeme prompt asking for a really dark Alistair fic, this fit so well, I decided to post it. Original prompt can be found here: http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/8033.html?thread=38180705#t38180705. Also, please know that I am not hating on any character in particular, despite what happens in this story. I just find it fascinating to write and read about what beloved characters do in times of suffering.
> 
> I am writing two versions of this - one Dark (at the prompt OP's request), one Light (my original intent for the story). This is the Dark Version. If you're looking for the Light Version, it can be found here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/606329/chapters/1092930. If you've already read the Light Version, you can skip ahead to Chapter 12 of this story; Chapters 1-11 are identical.

The last time he saw her – the last time he might ever see her – her face was frozen in an expression of terror and panic. The Dalish elf was small, but impossibly strong, and it took several burly guards to hold her back. His strong, beautiful elf, with her chestnut hair that glimmered with gold in the sunlight. His serious, wise elf with the silly name. Tangerine.

There was no one else to blame for their failure but himself. He was the one who insisted on fighting in the duel against Loghain. He was the one who let his anger blind him during the battle. And, finally, he was the one who tripped on a fold in the carpet, ensuring his defeat. Tangi had thrown herself before him, catching the final blow with her shoulder. The blow meant to take off his head. Thank the Maker she was wearing platemail, or she might have lost her arm.

In the end, it was all for nothing. Anora resumed her role as queen and ordered for his execution. Tangi shrieked, her good arm flying to her greatsword, even though she had little hope of hefting it one-handed. Guards swarmed them, disarming them and their companions. And then, that look. The look on Tangi's face that would haunt him for the rest of his days. However many days that would be.

"No!" she cried out, lashing out at the guards surrounding her, blood still trickling from her shoulder down her arm. "You can't do this! Alistair!"

"I love you!" he called out to her as the guards pulled him away. "Don't ever forget that!"

Tears streamed down her face as she nodded. It occurred to him that he had never seen her cry before. The sight was strange, yet beautiful.

Just outside the hall of the Landsmeet, a gauntleted fist connected with the back of his head, plunging him into darkness.


	2. Chapter 2

Alistair awoke with a stabbing headache. He was slumped against a cold, filthy stone wall, and he felt manacles and chains binding his wrists and ankles. Dressed only in his smallclothes, the chill of the air and stone seeped easily into his bones, and he shivered violently. Wherever he was, it was dimly lit, and it took some time for his eyes to adjust to the relative darkness. Stone walls and iron bars surrounded him on all sides. A small, tattered blanket and a bucket with which to relieve himself were the only other things in his cell. Once his teeth started chattering loudly, he gathered the dirty scrap of cloth awkwardly around himself, trying not to think about what vermin might be infesting it, but it did little to keep out the cold.

For hours, he waited for someone to come, to take him off to a chopping block to be executed. He tested his manacles and chains, looking for weak spots in the metal, but they were thick and well-forged. He wriggled his wrists, trying to slip out of the metal, but it only resulted in broken, raw skin. He pulled and pushed on all the bars of his cell, and felt around the stones on the floor and walls in hopes something might come loose. All to no avail. And though he had no way of keeping time, the hours wore on into what must have been well over a day at least, until Alistair began to wonder if they weren't going to bother with a proper execution at all, and merely starve him to death instead. No one came past his cell, and the only sounds that broke the oppressive silence were the far-off screams of tortured prisoners.

After what must have been two or three days in that cell, he woke to footsteps coming down the hall. Alistair got to his feet shakily, the days of cold, hunger, and dehydration leaving him weaker than he could ever remember being in his life. He leaned against the wall, struggling with the effort to remain upright.

The cell door swung open slowly, and two people strode in – one guard and a blond woman. Anora.

Alistair tried to lunge at her, but he only managed to stumble forward and land on his knees. "You…" he croaked in a voice barely above a whisper, his parched throat feeling like it was full of sand.

Anora gave a short nod to the guard, who filled a mug with water from a bucket he carried with him. The guard held the mug out to him. Alistair snatched it and greedily gulped down its contents. He held out the mug for more, but the guard only took it from him.

Alistair glared up at the queen with burning hatred. "Why am I still here?" he asked through clenched teeth, his voice still hoarse, his throat still unbearably dry.

"I never really had any intention of killing you, Alistair," Anora answered mildly. "A childish ruse, perhaps, but a necessary one all the same."

He frowned in confusion. "Why?"

"I would think that to be obvious." Anora gave a mirthless smile. "You are a Grey Warden, and as much as I want you out of the way, I also do not wish to jeopardize Ferelden's safety during a Blight."

"Fat lot of good I'll do to protect against the Blight, wasting away in a cell."

She shrugged. "Perhaps. Still, you may be of some use in that regard, and I will not throw away a potential resource."

"Potential resource?" Alistair repeated in disgust. "I am not some tool to be used as you see fit."

"That's all you ever were to me, Alistair," she said, shaking her head. She paused, as if appraising him. "I intend to make use of your royal blood as well."

"What do you mean?" he asked suspiciously, wisps of fear settling in his spine.

"I do not wish to take on another husband, but an heir will be necessary for the future of the country. An heir with Theirin blood will ensure that my place on the throne is not challenged again."

"That's insane!" Alistair exclaimed, feeling physically sick at what she was suggesting. "You want me to have sex with you?"

"That is typically how one creates an heir, yes."

He shuddered. "That's never going to happen."

Anora shrugged again. "You say that now. But given enough time, you might even begin to see me as desirable." She smirked. "Even the strongest wills can be broken, Alistair, and yours was never very strong to begin with."

Alistair shook his head, unable to believe what he was hearing. "But if everybody thinks I'm dead, they'll never believe that your child has royal blood. It won't work."

"That's another reason to keep you alive, I suppose. I'll simply clean you up and show you to the nobles. If they question why you are still alive, I will say that I decided to spare you instead and kept you close by to watch for signs of treason. Which isn't a lie, exactly."

The wisps of fear in his spine had exploded into utter horror at the life she was suggesting for him. "You're sick," he spat at her. Or he would have, if he still had any spit.

"It's either this or execution," she said blandly, as if talking about the weather. "You do not wish to live?"

"No, not like this. I'd rather die than live like this."

"Unfortunately, it isn't up to you." She turned back towards the door. "In the meantime, I'll leave you to the whims of my guards. They do get quite bored while they're on duty, and need some diversion to pass the time."

They shut the door behind them, leaving behind the water bucket and a lump of bread. As soon as Alistair could no longer hear their footsteps in the hall, he lunged at the food and water, tearing into the bread hungrily, washing it down with gulps of water. He felt pitiful and pathetic, and the knowledge that this was only the start of the degradation he'd have to face filled him with despair. He tried desperately to push it away, to hold on to some hope of escape. But though he wracked his brain to come up with an idea of how to escape, he could think of nothing that would work. He had no strength, and all his friends thought he was already dead. No one would come to save him.


	3. Chapter 3

The next day, guards roused him from his sleep, grabbing him by his shackles and dragging him from the cell. Alistair yelled, kicking as best he could with the heavy chains around his ankles. None of his kicks hit the guards; instead they laughed at his futile struggles and hauled his torso up onto a blood-stained table. They locked the shackles on his wrists to either end of the narrow table so that he was splayed across the flat surface with his chest against the jagged wood. They cut away his smallclothes, which fell lightly against his chained ankles. One of them kicked his legs apart, clasping the ends of a metal bar between the fetters as Alistair continued to yell, fearing what he knew was coming next.

"Might wanna stop thrashing," a guard growled in his ear, "unless you wanna tear yourself up."

"Get away from me, you bastards!" Alistair cried, the words feeling ineffectual for the amount of hatred and fear that clutched at his chest and throat.

"Warned ya," the guard said dismissively. Alistair heard the sounds of armor and clothing stripping away, and then the sound of something wet and slick on flesh. Moments later, he felt slippery and warm fingers rubbing against his ass, prodding at the puckered opening, and he struggled again, yelling curses to drown out his terror.

There was no further warning or preparation. A light pressure against him turned into searing pain as the guard grunted, thrusting into him. Alistair screamed in pain as he felt flesh breaking, pulling itself apart around the large and sudden intrusion. He willed himself not to beg, not to give them the satisfaction of pleading them to stop, though the words hung at the tip of his tongue. Instead, he continued to scream angrily, wordlessly, so he would not have to hear the slap of his skin against the guard's as the other man pounded into him.

Minutes passed, but somehow it seemed like the pounding lasted a lifetime. The guard finally groaned with a furious pumping of his hips as he spilled his seed into Alistair. Alistair felt the man back away, and he felt a momentary surge of relief. But then he felt the presence of another man behind him, taking the place of the first.

"I'll bet you have a nice, tight ass," the new guard hissed.

Alistair gritted his teeth as the other man plunged into his entrance. He cried out again, the pain nearly as severe as when the first man took him. Humiliation and despair threatened to overwhelm his anger, and Alistair desperately tried to fight those emotions, clinging to the rage that kept him sane. He continued to yell and thrash as best he could, working himself into a frenzy so he wouldn't have to feel what the man was doing to him. Soon, it was over again, and Alistair slumped on the table, exhausted.

But it didn't end. One guard after another came behind him, adding their seed to the collection forming deep within him. Sticky semen began dribbling down Alistair's thighs. He could no longer thrash or shout. His voice was hoarse from screaming, his body weak from hunger and his efforts earlier. He'd lost count of the men who took him, or whether they were even different men, rather than the same few men over and over. Eventually, he just slumped against the table, lacking the energy to do anything but listen to the men laugh and grunt as they pummeled into him with their hips.

Alistair wasn't sure how long it had been – hours perhaps – by the time they pulled him off of the table and dragged him back to his cell. They threw him in unceremoniously and shut the door, laughing and calling him a "nice, little whore" as they walked away. Alistair pulled the dirty blanket to him and curled around himself on the floor, trying to hide away his nakedness and shame. He lay there, unmoving, staring out at the darkness until a fitful sleep finally claimed him.

o.O.o

The next day passed with nothing to distract him from his feelings of humiliation and degradation, except for a plate of stale bread and dried meat sliding under a slot in the door. Alistair ate it ravenously, though it did little to quell the Grey Warden hunger pulling incessantly at his stomach. He drank water from the bucket carefully, his throat still raw from all the yelling he had done the day before. He spent the time curled up in the blanket, trying to occupy his mind with the various ways he would kill Anora and her guards, if only he were given the strength and opportunity.

The day after, he was dragged once more from his sleep, pulled to the same bloody table as before. Alistair found he still had little strength to struggle, but he kicked and yelled as best he could, to prove to them – and, perhaps, to himself – that his will would not be easily broken. He expected to feel the men take him by the ass again, but instead he felt something crack sharply and suddenly against his back. He cried out in pain and surprise, and was still unprepared for the second strike that came.

"Why are you doing this?" he shouted. "I've done nothing wrong!"

Wicked laughter rippled from the men around him, but none of them spoke up to answer him. The guard behind him snapped the whip again, producing a hot welt Alistair felt along the sensitive flesh of his ass.

Alistair gritted his teeth and steeled himself for the next blow, and the next. He tried not to make any further sounds, afraid he might scream and beg, but he could not stop the groans that escaped past his teeth. His brain fumbled for templar meditation exercises, hoping the clarity would allow him to leave the agony of his body behind. It worked for a time. Yet with each successive lash of the whip, he felt his control slipping until the pain rushed over him again. Something warm and sticky trickled down his legs, and he knew it wasn't semen this time, but rather, his own blood. Eventually, his vision tunneled, and he allowed himself to be pulled into the darkness.

When he awoke, he let out a choked whimper at the stabbing, overwhelming pain that ran the length of his back down to his upper thighs. The cold air helped to ease the burning sensation that plagued his wounds, but did little else to make him feel better. Despair began to fill him once again, and he struggled to keep it at bay. His thoughts turned to his beautiful elf, somewhere out there fighting against the Blight. It felt as if he hadn't seen her in a very long time, when it had been less than a week since he saw her last. Her terrified, panicked face came to his mind, and though thinking of her in that frozen expression made his heart ache, it gave him a faint glimmer of hope as well.

"Tangi," he murmured, willing her to hear him somehow. "I'm alive. Please come for me."

He repeated the last two sentences over and over, as if he were praying the Chant of Light. To him, it was indeed a prayer, giving voice to his belief that if he wished for it hard enough, she would find him and bring an end to his suffering.


	4. Chapter 4

The next few weeks continued in this pattern. Some days, the guards raped him. Others, they tortured him. More often, they left him alone in his cell, with little but the clatter of the tin plate shoved under the door to distract him. A guard would come by every now and again to empty his waste bucket or refill his water. And though Alistair considered attacking the guard while the cell door was open, the pain from his injuries and lack of strength made it a struggle to even stand most days, and the door would shut before he could even reach the guard.

Alistair continued to struggle when they took him out of the cell, but the spirit he put into his efforts waned, as they only succeeded in robbing him of his few ounces of strength. He wondered if his will was breaking, if exhaustion meant submission. So he kept struggling as much as he could, to convince himself that he still had the will to fight, even if he lacked the energy.

Each session at the bloodied table was different. Sometimes they dragged sharp daggers lightly across his skin or dripped hot wax slowly onto his flesh. Other times, they hooked him to a rack, pulling his limbs to their limits until he was sure his arms and legs would rip from his body. When the guards found they had gone too far, a healer – a downcast-looking elf with dark circles under his eyes – would come to undo the damage they had done to him, even taking away some of the welts and scabs from previous torture sessions. Alistair almost wished the guards would overdo it more often, as the days when the healer came were the only ones where he would return to his cell without any pain.

Alistair had lost count of the days, but it had surely been a few weeks after that fateful Landsmeet when he felt something familiar and foreboding pulling at his spine when he awoke. At first, it was difficult to place the feeling; it had been a long time since he'd had any sensation other than pain, cold, or hunger. When he realized what it was, his eyes widened and he threw himself at the metal bars of his cell.

"Hey!" he called desperately. "Somebody! There are darkspawn nearby!"

There was no answer, but it seemed there were more shouts and screaming than usual.

The feeling of the taint was overwhelming. It seemed the darkspawn must be everywhere – thousands of them swarming around Fort Drakon. Around the city itself, perhaps. And if Alistair closed his eyes, he could hear something. Something that had always been in the back of his mind, but now brought strongly to the fore. The song of the archdemon.

"No…" he murmured, then railed at the bars again. "Somebody! Let me out! The darkspawn… the archdemon! Please, I'm a Grey Warden!"

He knew he would never be able to lift a sword in his condition, much less defend himself against a single hurlock. But the prospect of going into battle once more, of an opportunity to die with honor fighting against the Blight… It was better than wasting away in this cell, tortured and defiled, waiting for a rescue that may never come.

Rescue… Tangi! If the darkspawn were here, she would be too, he was sure of it. Knowing it was almost too much to hope for, still he prayed that one of his friends would somehow be nearby and hear him. "Help! Let me out! My name is Alistair! I'm a Grey Warden! Please, someone help me!"

He alternated between yelling at the top of his lungs and sipping at water to ease his throat. He continued this way for hours, pleading into the air that someone hear his cries. Loud, armored footsteps sometimes sounded beyond the doors to the hallway, and Alistair yelled louder, but whoever those soldiers were, they were gone almost as quickly as they came.

Suddenly, the whole prison shook with the force of a powerful blast. Alistair tumbled backwards, landing painfully on his backside. He listened, wondering what could have caused such a blast, and he heard shouts of surprise echoing faintly through the stone corridors. After a moment, Alistair closed his eyes, listening again. The archdemon's song was gone.

"She did it…" he said in a soft voice, bittersweet tears coming to his eyes. "She actually did it." He gave a small, sad smile and sighed, leaning up against the stone wall. "I guess she didn't really need me after all." The tears fell from his eyes.

o.O.o

It took two days for the guards to come back, and it had been three days since he had last been fed. He had thankfully had the foresight to tuck away bits of previous meals in a dark corner of his cell for such an occasion. But when the tin of food came, he still devoured the bread and meat within scant seconds of receiving it. The guard watched him eat for a moment before turning away.

"Wait," Alistair called around his last mouthful of food.

The guard paused. "What do you want?"

"I just… I wanted to know what happened a few days ago. The Blight's over, isn't it?"

"Yeah, your Grey Warden buddies killed the archdemon. Up on this fort's tower, in fact."

Alistair blinked. "Tangi was here? In Fort Drakon?"

The guard barked a laugh. "The elf leading the charge? Yeah, she was here. She might've seen ya too, if the darkspawn woulda come through here. But you're too far down, and they were heading up." He smirked. "Too bad for you, huh?" With that, he walked away.

Alistair's heart sank with disappointment. "Yeah," he muttered. "Too bad for me."

o.O.o

The days continued as they had before, and once again, Alistair lost track of time. It seemed as if he were living the same three or four days over and over, the only real indication of time passing was the growing of his beard and hair, now hanging in dirty clumps about his head.

There came a day when they brought him to the familiar table. For once, he didn't struggle in the least, but merely dragged his feet as he shuffled along between the guards. They locked his manacles to the table as usual, and kicked his feet apart. They had taken their pleasure from him so often by then that there was usually only a momentary discomfort at the first man's entrance. Alistair waited, listening to the first guard prepare himself with oil.

Something was different when the guard pushed deeply into him. Alistair's eyes widened, and he gasped at something that was decidedly not pain. The other man began a slow rhythm, each thrust brushing up against a spot deep within him that sent shivers up through his spine. Alistair bit back a moan, and to his horror, his body began responding to the waves of pleasure rocking through him.

One of the other men noticed. "Hey, look," he said, laughing and pointing at Alistair's growing erection. "He likes it when he ain't flailin' about."

"You like that, you dirty whore?" the guard pumping into Alistair breathed in his ear. He punctuated the sentence with a few hard thrusts.

Alistair just barely kept another moan from escaping his lips, but he was finding it increasingly difficult to keep silent. Pleasure. It had been so long since he'd felt it. He had tried on several occasions in his cell, alone with his thoughts of Tangi, but the biting cold kept him from maintaining an erection for more than a few minutes. Here, in the torture chamber filled with the warmth of flaming torches and moving bodies, his erection sprang forth with renewed vigor, until Alistair's hands itched for want of relieving the pressure.

The guard's pace grew faster now, harder. Gasps and groans came from Alistair unbidden. It just felt too good to try to suppress any of it. He hated himself for wanting it, even as he had to keep himself from begging for more. Soon – too soon – the other man spent himself and immediately withdrew, leaving Alistair feeling empty and wanting.

Another man stepped up behind him. "You want more, dirty whore?"

Alistair trembled, refusing to speak.

"We can always leave. There are plenty of other prisoners." The guard gripped a handful of Alistair's hair and pulled his head back. "Do you want more?"

After a moment's hesitation, he nodded his head, too ashamed to give words to his desire.

The guard released him, giving a grin that Alistair couldn't see, but could hear in his voice. "There's a good girl."

The other man thrust into him hard, and Alistair gasped at the renewed sensation. He groaned with every slap of their hips against each other. It wasn't long before Alistair spilled his seed onto the stone floor, but it was short and unsatisfying as his cock went untouched. The guard did not cease pumping into him, and Alistair's erection returned within minutes, willing and waiting for something to touch it.

But nothing did. No one did. As soon as the second guard spent himself, another took his place. Bolts of pleasure coursed through Alistair as one guard after another took their turns, his voice ragged from shamelessly begging for more. His cock was impossibly hard with want, the tip weeping with viscous fluid, and Alistair thought he might go mad with need for release.

The men, having had their fill, turned towards the door, laughing.

"Wait, no!" Alistair cried. "Where are you going?"

"It's suppertime," one said simply, looking back at him with malicious glee. "We took too long with you."

"Don't worry," another said. "We'll be back for you in a couple hours."

"No, please!" Alistair called after them. "Just release my hands! Please!"

They closed the door behind them, their laughter echoing in the corridor, leaving him slumped over the table, helpless and aching with need.

Bitter tears fell down his face, cutting rivulets through the dirt. He had to be broken now, he was sure of it. He had no thoughts of revenge, no will to fight. All he wanted in that moment was for one of them to come back and unlock his wrists so he could bring himself relief. And he hated himself for it.


	5. Chapter 5

More days and weeks passed. The days when the guards raped him, sometimes they would leave him in the torture chamber like before, while other times they dumped him back in his cell. As soon as he was back in his cell, he immediately pumped into his hand in desperation, filled with despair and self-loathing, but unwilling to wait for the cold to start having its effect on his erection. Sometimes he would think of Tangi, but thoughts of her started filling him with shame. His wanting to be pleasured by these men was now somehow a betrayal against her. He felt like he was cheating on her, though she thought he was dead. Though he had little hope of ever seeing her again. He wondered – was it still rape if he wanted it? He wanted it even while he didn't want it. Though it humiliated him and filled him with self-hatred, it was the one thing that made him feel good.

A day came when two guards arrived with the elven mage in tow. "Get up," one of the guards ordered. When Alistair obeyed, they unlocked the door and pulled on his chains like a leash. "Let's go."

"Where?" Alistair asked. He looked at the mage curiously, but the mage would not meet his eyes.

"Don't ask questions," the guard grunted, and they continued on in silence.

They brought him down several corridors and up two flights of stairs, which Alistair had difficulty climbing due to his shackled feet. Mild fancies of hope crept into his mind. Did someone find out he was alive? Had someone arranged for his freedom? He tried to shove these thoughts aside. It was almost impossible that someone found out about him, and if he allowed himself to believe in these fancies, the disappointment would surely devastate him. No, better to be pleasantly surprised than face crushing disappointment again.

And pleasantly surprised he was when they reached their destination, though it was nothing he would have expected. They stopped at a room with a large tub of steaming water. Two elven men stood nearby, waiting with sponges and soap.

The guards pushed him forward and the elves took him to a small stool in the middle of the stone floor. They dumped a bucket of warm water over his head, and Alistair gasped at the sudden heat against his perpetually cold skin. They lathered soap into his skin and hair, scrubbing with cloths and sponges. He felt himself blush for the first time in a long while as they stood him up so they could scrub at his genitals and backside, then down his legs and feet. They carefully soaped underneath his manacles at his wrists and ankles, taking care to go all the way around the now callused skin. They sat him down again and poured another bucket of water over his head. Alistair watched in grim fascination as the water, dark gray with dirt, flowed down the drains in the floor. One of them took out a pair of shears and cut away his matted hair until it was nearly as short as it was before he was incarcerated. They trimmed his beard before shaving his face clean. Alistair's hands went up to his face, wondering at the feel of his newly revealed skin. Finally, they stood him up again, and brought him to the bath.

As he couldn't lift one leg into the tub without the other, the elves sat him down at the edge then swiveled him around until his feet rested in the hot water. Alistair gasped again as they lowered him into the water, the heat shooting immediately into his bones. They allowed him to soak for a time, and he began to grow sleepy from the relaxing of his aching muscles. He couldn't remember the last time he had felt so contented. But eventually the elves were fussing over him again, drawing him back up to scrub at him once more with soap and sponges, chasing away the last of the filth that clung to his body.

Alistair looked at his skin in amazement. It was white, almost pearly in its paleness, no longer darkened with dirt and blood and dried semen. He remembered that he used to be tan, and he wondered again at how long he had been imprisoned. It felt incredible to finally be clean after what had surely been months of wallowing in filth.

The elves rinsed him off a final time before helping him back out of the bath. Alistair reluctantly left the warm water, and, as soon as he was standing on the stone floor again, they dried him off with soft towels before sending him back to the guards.

Alistair turned to the elves as the guards pushed him toward their next destination. "Thank you," he whispered to them, his eyes shining with gratitude. Despite his nakedness, he felt like he had some dignity for the first time in a long while.

The elves exchanged looks of surprise, but gave sad smiles to him as they nodded their acceptance of his thanks.

The guards brought him down several other corridors and up another flight of stairs until they reached a private hallway with only two doors. One of the doors was open, and Alistair looked in as he shuffled past. It was a lush room with a four-poster bed and velvet curtains drawn over a wall of large windows. There were sitting chairs around a large fireplace and a writing desk tucked in the corner. Alistair was puzzled by how out of place such a room seemed in a prison where people were regularly tortured. But he wasn't given much time to consider the room as they reached the other door at the end of the hall.

The guards stopped him and turned to the mage. "Look him over. She wants to make sure he doesn't have any unsightly cuts or welts."

The mage nodded, and Alistair felt a wave of healing magic pass over him. Then the mage looked back up at the guards and nodded again, indicating he was done.

The guards unlocked the door. "In you go, princess," the lead guard said with a smirk, and shoved Alistair through the doorway.

Alistair fell to his knees. He shut his eyes almost immediately, the room brighter than any he had been in since his imprisonment. He blinked and squinted as he allowed his eyes to adjust. What could be so bright? He edged forward, and he felt the light hit him on his arm, warming his skin at its touch. He allowed his eyes to open wider, and his vision focused.

Sunlight. Alistair scrambled to his feet and stumbled to the tiny window at the other end of the room. The window was little more than a narrow opening in the stone wall. There were no panes of glass fitted inside, but bars criss-crossed the outside of it. Even without the bars, there was no way he would be able to fit through the opening, despite the considerable weight he had lost in recent months. He closed his eyes and pressed his face to the window, basking in the warmth of the sun and taking large gulps of the fresh air coming through. The air smelled so much sweeter beyond the walls of the prison, untainted by blood and sweat and waste.

Alistair opened his eyes and looked out past the bars to the city below. Though he was technically only two stories up, those two stories were quite high, due to Fort Drakon's high ceilings. He watched in fascination as the people went about their business in the city streets. It seemed strange that life continued on beyond the prison walls, with people going about their daily routines. He stuck an arm out the window past the bars, as if he could touch the freedom that taunted him. Filling once more with the familiar emptiness of despair, he pushed his face as far as it would go into the window and shouted. "Someone help me!" he cried. "I don't belong here! I'm being held against my will! Please, someone!"

He tentatively looked out at the streets below and was unsurprised – yet, nevertheless, still disappointed – that no one even paused to look up. And he realized. There were other shouts – faint murmurings in the distance that he had long since tuned out, of other prisoners crying their pleas for help and mercy. The people who lived and worked nearby were probably used to hearing prisoners calling out from Fort Drakon and, like him, had learned to ignore them.

Alistair turned away from the window, finding the sunlight and fresh air and tantalizing freedom beyond to be suddenly depressing. He looked around the tiny room. Though the room was small, it was at least twice as large as his cell. It had likely been a storage room at one point, as empty shelves were embedded in one wall. There was a cot against the opposite wall, with a clean woolen blanket. He took the blanket into his hands, marveling at it softness, its utter lack of smell that was comforting after his own blanket that had reeked with…

He pushed the thought from his mind and continued his perusal of the room. There was a proper chamberpot and a metal basin of water, bolted to one of the shelves, with a tin cup next to it. And in the corner was a round wicker basket.

Alistair rubbed his eyes, convinced he was seeing things. He shuffled hesitantly to the basket and got to his knees before it. Food! And not just stale bread and tough bits of dried beef. Fresh bread and smoked meat. Ripe fruit and… "Cheese…" he whispered reverently.

He paused, wondering for a brief moment whether to hide it away, to save it somehow. But months of hunger and the fear it might all be taken away made him act. He tore into the cheese, but forced himself to chew slowly so he could taste it, savor it. He couldn't remember cheese ever tasting this _good_ , but the salty, smoky flavor was better than he could have imagined. Though he tried to pace himself, it was gone too soon and he started in on the fruit. He took large bites of apples and devoured whole handfuls of grapes at a time, reveling in the juices trickling past his shackles down his arms. He licked the juices away as best he could, not wanting to waste a drop of sweetness. The Grey Warden hunger within him practically bellowed with renewed ferocity, and Alistair took the small loaf of crusty bread in one hand and a large chunk of meat in the other. He alternated between chomping down on one and ripping mouthfuls off of the other, glorying in the mix of flavors dancing about his tongue. His stomach began to hurt from being so suddenly filled, but he didn't care. It was too good to stop, too long since he'd had his fill of anything.

When it was all gone, he coughed and shakily grabbed a cupful of water. Even the water tasted better, clear and crisp. Suddenly sleepy, he shuffled to the cot and wrapped himself in the wool blanket. The cot felt amazing… Had beds even been this soft? He couldn't remember. Warm, full, clean, and comfortable for the first time in months, Alistair quickly fell into an easy sleep under the soft, warm rays of the setting sun.


	6. Chapter 6

When he awoke, he was at first confused, forgetting where he was. He was so contented, he thought for one glorious moment that perhaps it had all been a very long, very vivid nightmare. But then the weight of the shackles at his wrists and ankles brought sinking reality past the fog of sleep and Alistair sighed. He sat up, keeping the blanket wrapped around him.

It was early morning. Past the window the sky was a faint slate blue with hints of light just starting to become visible. The morning chill made him shiver a bit, but it was nowhere near as cold as it had been in his cell. His stomach ached from his bingeing the night before, but he had thankfully kept it all down. After getting up to relieve himself in the chamberpot, he stood by the window and watched the city begin to wake.

A hatch at the bottom of the door swung open then, and another small basket of food slid in. Alistair blinked at it for a moment, unaccustomed now to the idea of eating more than once a day. He snatched up the basket quickly, afraid it was a mistake, afraid the guard would come in at any second to take it away. Despite the tenderness of his stomach, he wolfed down the bread and meat and fruit, barely taking the time to chew between swallows. When he was finished, he sat back and leaned against the empty shelves to catch his breath. His stomach hurt sharply now, and though the pain nearly doubled him over, he did not regret it in the least. He stood carefully and began pacing the room to settle his stomach, shuffling from the door to the window and back again with the blanket drawn tightly around him.

A few hours later, a key rattled in the lock of the door. A guard looked in. "Out," he said brusquely. "Don't make me go in there and get you."

Alistair set the blanket on the cot and went to the door. There were two guards in the hallway, the one who summoned him, and one waiting just down the hall. The guard beside him shut the door behind him and pulled him along. They entered the other door, into the room that he had seen the day before when they had first walked in.

"Lie down on the bed, face up," the guard instructed.

Alistair stared at the bed for a moment. It was beautiful and plush and bigger than his cell. He sat hesitantly on the bed and it immediately sank a bit under his weight. Oh, yes. Beds were much softer than cots. He swung his feet up and lay back.

One guard shoved him to the middle of the bed, then went to his wrists. He unlocked the chains between them and pulled Alistair's arms over his head. The guard handed one of the arms to the other guard waiting on the opposite side of the bed, and they each chained his wrists to the posts on either side. They then repeated the process with his feet, until Alistair was splayed across the bed with his limbs in an X formation.

"Have fun, princess," the guard said over his shoulder as he left the room.

Several minutes passed as Alistair waited, not sure what to make of this new situation. He wasn't left to wonder long, as the door was unlocked and someone entered.

Anora. It had been a long time since he had seen her, but his hatred boiled to the surface anew. He seethed silently as she locked the door behind her and turned to look at him.

"Hello, Alistair," Anora said in her prim and controlled voice. "It has been a while, hasn't it?"

"Don't pretend you're here for a friendly chat," Alistair growled through clenched teeth. "What do you want?"

"Have you forgotten?" she replied, looking honestly surprised. "I want what I've always wanted from you."

Alistair paled and realized she was wearing a robe, and what looked to be little else.

She smiled at his expression, her face mirthless despite the curling of her lips. "Come now. Four months alone in that little cell? Surely even you must want this by now."

He tried to ignore her implication. Tried more to ignore the ever so slight warming of his body that had made her implication true. Instead, he latched onto something else she said that genuinely surprised him. "Has it really been four months?" he asked. It had seemed so much longer than that, and yet, so much shorter.

Anora shrugged again and turned from him, facing a mirror by the door. "Indeed. Ferelden has been rebuilding after the Blight, and Denerim was especially hard hit. I have been very busy. I apologize for the delay in our… arrangement."

Alistair scowled. "Arrangement?" he repeated. "Don't pretend I had a say in this, Anora. Don't pretend I haven't been repeatedly tortured for the last four months."

She sighed loudly. "Oh, I must speak to my guards about that," she simpered, watching herself in the mirror. "They really shouldn't be so rough with you, and they do get carried away sometimes."

"You bitch," Alistair spat. "As if they didn't do exactly what you wanted."

Her hands went to the belt at her waist, slowly pulling apart the delicate knot. "That's enough. I really haven't the time to chat. You know what I'm here for." She pulled the robe open and let it fall teasingly past her shoulders. "I don't wish to wait any longer." With that, the robe fell in a puddle around her feet, revealing her alabaster skin and smooth curves.

Alistair swallowed, his eyes wandering hungrily over her exposed flesh. "I… no… I don't want this," he stammered, his mouth suddenly dry.

Anora grinned. "Your body says otherwise."

Of course it did. It would. He wanted to close his eyes, to take a moment to will away the traitorous erection that sprang from his hips. Yet, at the same time, he was desperate to drink in every detail of her body – the rise and fall of her breasts, the rosy color of her nipples, the tautness of her stomach, the roundness of her hips, the dusting of curls between her long legs… He let out a shuddering breath. Maker help him, but it had been so long since he'd even laid eyes on a woman, much less seen one naked. Despite the hatred still burning within him, despite all the things the guards had done to him at her command, he wanted her. He wanted her so badly.

She walked slowly – agonizingly so – up to the bed, her hips swaying with each step. She crawled up on top of it, taking her time as she made her way up the length of him. She allowed her breasts to brush up against his erection as she passed, and Alistair hissed with the sensation. His breath was already ragged with desire. His skin tingled with raised gooseflesh, both with the disgust of having her touch him and the need to feel more.

Anora stopped, her hips hovering over his chest. "It… has been a long time for me as well," she said, not so much an admission, as an explanation. "I wish for you to pleasure me."

Without any further hesitation, she shifted, hooking her legs under his shoulders. Alistair stared, trembling as she lowered her sex to his face. He didn't want to please her. He didn't want to give her any satisfaction at all. But the smell of her arousal was heady and intoxicating, and his will to resist was already crumbling around him.

"And…" he began shakily, his mind scrambling to keep his wits about him and failing. "And if I don't?"

She stared down at him without a hint of emotion. "If you service me, you stay up here, in a comfortable room. If you don't, I will not ask again. I'll simply have you taken back to the dungeons. Until you do as I say the first time."

Anora did not have to say the words, but he knew what she implied. His choice was simple. Sex with her while fed and warm, or sex with several faceless guards while tortured and starving. He wanted to deny her, to shout his defiance at her. But in his moment of hesitation, he thought of the dark and the cold and the blood-stained table, the filth and the whippings and the feel of sweaty flesh slapping into his behind. And it turned out to be not much of a choice at all.

Alistair lifted his head slightly and pressed his tongue to her folds. She gasped, cupping his head and lifting it up to press his lips against her. She was tangy and sweet, and the flavor of her on his tongue shattered what little control he had left. Soon, he was lapping and sipping at her folds, nipping and sucking at the little bud hidden underneath. Anora groaned and whimpered above him, urging him on. She let go of his head and lowered her hips down to rest against his face. As he licked and sucked at her, she began grinding against him shamelessly. Finally, she quivered before arching her back and gasping for air, her hips bucking ever so slightly as she came.

Anora lowered herself to sit lightly on his chest, faint tremors still coursing through her body. Alistair was nearly panting now, half from being nearly smothered under her sex, and half from the almost painful need to be inside her. He bit his lip, forcing himself not to beg her to get up and impale herself on him already. Instead, he shifted uncomfortably under her weight in hopes she might get up on her own.

Anora finally looked up at him. "Thank you, Alistair. That was lovely." She then lifted herself off his chest and gazed at his erection. It was already thick and hard with want, the tip swollen and red, glistening with pre-cum. She smirked. "My, you're certainly ready for me."

Alistair didn't answer, not trusting himself. Half-crazed words tumbled through his head. _Please, oh please… Let me be inside you, please… Oh, for the love of Andraste, please…_

She shifted above him until her hips were right over his. "This is not an ideal position for conceiving," she told him, "but it will have to do for now until you can be trusted to behave yourself." As their eyes met, Alistair knew – beyond the continual begging going on in his mind – that she was prolonging this on purpose, to torture him. She hovered mere inches above his erection, and the smell of her still on his face was driving him mad. He tried lifting his hips to touch her, but fell just short of reaching her. "Perhaps we can figure out other ways to restrain you," she went on. "I will have to discuss this with the guards."

It was too much for him to take. "Get on with it already!" Alistair shouted in a growling voice.

Anora chuckled. "I like your enthusiasm." Then, without warning, she grabbed his cock and plunged him into her.

Alistair gasped at the sudden explosion of sensation, nearly spilling himself inside her right then. "Oh, _Maker_!" he cried, taking in large gulps of air as his mind scrambled for control. After the long, agonizing anticipation, he was determined to last more than a few measly seconds.

Oh, but she was so very hot. So very tight. Maker's Breath, he'd forgotten how _good_ it felt to be inside a woman. Anora moved slowly, but with each meeting of their hips, Alistair found it increasingly difficult to hold himself back. It was too good, and it had been too long. They had been coupled for only a few minutes when he felt his body tense and he shouted, his cock spurting his seed up into Anora. Relief, rather than pleasure, washed over Alistair at his release, as the thought of how desperately he had wanted Anora filled him with self-disgust.

Yet Anora showed no signs of stopping. Instead, she continued to ride him in long, slow movements, bringing his half-flaccid cock to full erection once more after several minutes. "No," Alistair protested. "I- I've already gone, Anora. Isn't that enough?"

She smoothed a loose strand of hair back behind her ear and raised an eyebrow at him. "Enough, Alistair? It's enough when I give the word, and no sooner."

Alistair struggled uselessly beneath her, but his resistance seemed only to urge her on, her body rising and falling faster. A soft moan escaped from his lips. Being inside her still felt incredible, and the extra friction his movement caused heightened the sensation of each pump of Anora's hips. He settled instead on lying still with his eyes closed, his mind scrambling for memories of Tangi to make him come faster, so the ordeal might be over sooner. Yet, even with his eyes tightly shut and his mind working frantically, all he could see was Tangi's face at the Landsmeet, panicked and terrified. As much as he despaired at the image, he clung to it desperately. It was an image of the woman he loved – the woman he still hoped to see again someday. Without it, all he had was the bitch of a queen, milking him for his royal seed.

How long they stayed like that, Alistair wasn't sure. Certainly too long, the Grey Warden stamina having kicked in at an inopportune time. He began thrusting back up into her, crying out in shame and pleasure. Finally, finally, he came again, his orgasm bursting forth from him in searing, blinding heat. Anora collapsed on top of him, covered in sweat and utterly spent.

His skin crawled at the feel of her weight pressing against him. "Get off," he grunted between panted breaths.

She didn't move, didn't answer.

"Get off of me!" he shouted, thrashing as best he could with the little energy he had left.

Anora glared at him in annoyance and dismounted from him, careful not to spill too much of the precious semen inside of her. She lay down on her back beside him on the bed with her legs pulled to her chest.

Alistair ignored this strange behavior of hers, wanting to purge any thoughts of her from his mind. He closed his eyes, pretending he was alone. After a few moments, he heard her get to her feet and get dressed.

"Guards, we are done here. Take him away."


	7. Chapter 7

The next several days were more of the same. Each morning, Alistair was roused from his sleep and chained to the bed. Anora would enter and disrobe, then proceed straight to him in a business-like manner with few words of banter exchanged between them. Usually, her hands would go straight to his flaccid member, stroking and massaging gently as Alistair tried desperately not to let his body respond to the wonderful sensations. It never took long, however, for him to reach a full erection, and she would lower herself onto him without delay and ride him. Most times, she would not dismount until after he had come within her twice, his too-eager cock so willing to action after a few minutes rest.

"Grey Warden stamina has not been exaggerated," Anora said in a pleased tone, panting a little from their exertions. It had been well over a week since Alistair was brought there from his dungeon cell, and – as always – Anora lay down beside him with her legs curled to her chest after they had finished.

Despite himself, Alistair looked at her curiously. "What in the Maker's name are you doing?"

"The midwives I spoke to said staying like this for a few moments after intercourse might aid in conception," Anora explained in an irritated tone.

"You look ridiculous," he told her. "And this coming from a naked man chained to a bed."

"Come now, Alistair," she said with her head turned back towards the ceiling. "Conceiving a child with you will take some time, surely. We might as well be civil."

"We can be civil when you and your guards stop… _violating_ me for your own gain and amusement," he snapped.

Anora gave a condescending laugh. "Don't pretend you didn't enjoy what we just did. You were yelling so loudly, they likely heard you in the lowest levels of the basement."

Alistair refused to look at her, his face feeling red hot with shame.

"I wonder, did you make those sounds when coupling with that Dalish mongrel of yours?"

Alistair whirled his head around to face her, his eyes piercing and dark with fury. "Don't you dare speak about her that way! You'd be lucky if you could be a quarter of the woman she is!"

Anora smirked and pushed herself off the bed. "Was," she said simply as she walked to her discarded robe and pulled it over her shoulders.

"What?" Alistair snarled.

"'The woman she _was_ ,'" she corrected again. The demure expression on her face did little to mask the sadistic glee in her eyes.

"What… what do you mean by that?"

Anora watched him as she tied the belt around her robe. "You didn't think your Warden actually survived ending the Blight, did you?"

Alistair stared at her, his brain refusing to comprehend what she was telling him.

"Have you never wondered," Anora continued, "why it must be a Grey Warden to kill the archdemon? I know little of the details, but something about the taint within you allows you to slay not only the body of the dragon, but the soul as well. At the cost of the Warden who gave the killing blow."

"No…" Alistair murmured, his throat closing around the words. "You're… You're lying."

She chuckled. "Why would I make up such a thing?"

Hot tears pooled in his eyes. "Please, no… Please… Just tell me you're lying."

Anora merely sighed and walked to the door. "I will see you again in a few days, Alistair, after I have consulted with my midwives. Perhaps we can try other positions that will be better for conception."

Alistair barely heard her. "Please…" He cried freely now, not caring if she or the guards saw him breaking. "Oh, please, Maker! No…"

The guards came and unchained him from the bed. They all but carried him from the room and threw him back into the storage closet with the window and tiny cot. Alistair lay there on the floor where he landed, curling his shackled legs in towards his chest, his mind swimming with the last, final image of Tangi. Chestnut hair, tied back with wisps framing her slender face. Terrified eyes, shining with love and tears.

In the four months of his incarceration, he had wanted to die many times, would have preferred it to the daily agonies of his imprisonment. This new torture – the knowing he would truly never see his Tangi again – felt like death, felt like dying. For what was left of life, if there was nothing left to live for?

o.O.o

Anora had Alistair brought back into the bedchamber a few days later, but found herself leaving frustrated. Alistair, consumed with grief, could not bring himself to arousal, despite some level of teasing on the queen's part. This continued during the next few attempts over the following week such that Anora's patience had obviously grown thin.

"What use are you to me, then?" she snapped at him one morning, tying her robe around her as she headed for the door.

Alistair lay on the bed and didn't look at her. Despite the fact that they no longer chained him to the bed, he hadn't struggled. Or moved much at all from where the guards had placed him.

Anora waited a moment at the doorway to see if he would answer. When he said nothing, she flounced from the room with a huff. After a moment, the guards dragged him to his feet once more and threw him into his room.

A new basket of food sat beside the door. Alistair stared at it, not feeling the hunger gnawing at his insides. He'd barely eaten since Anora told him that Tangi had died, even though good food was almost always available. Each bite he had taken tasted like nothing at all. Even the cheese did nothing to awaken an appetite within him. Instead of eating, he curled up onto the cot and stared at the walls until he fell into a dreamless sleep.

It was nighttime when the guards pulled him from the cot and dragged him roughly into the bedchamber. They tossed him onto the bed and shut the door behind them as they left. Alistair blinked up at the bed's canopy, mildly surprised to be taken there again so soon, but not caring why. The room was dimly lit by only a few flickering candles.

Someone entered. A small-framed woman, lithe and slender, who stepped hesitantly into the room. Anora came in after her, and shut the door behind them. Rather than approaching the bed, Anora sat down at the writing desk and watched.

Alistair paid the other woman no heed at first, but something familiar caught his eye. The woman – an elf, it would appear – wore her hair in a tight ponytail at the back of her head, with light wisps framing her face. The candlelight danced across her, obscuring her features, but he glimpsed a flash of chestnut and gold. He gasped. "T-Tangi?"

The elf did not answer, but rather lowered herself before him. Alistair stared at her, propping himself up to try to make out her face in the dim light. He could see nothing but a slim nose and high cheekbones, but he was becoming increasingly aware of the thin, gauzy material clinging to the cream-colored skin of her pert breasts and round hips. He swallowed, feeling suddenly warm in the face and… other places. "It… it can't be," he murmured.

Some part of him knew that was true – that even if Tangerine were alive, she wouldn't be there in Fort Drakon with him. But everything else within him was so consumed with desperation, he allowed himself to believe the lie. He watched, captivated, as the elf gently took his rising cock and massaged it, before placing her lips tentatively against its tip.

Alistair gave a loud groan. The need within him soared from non-existent to nearly all-encompassing. He wanted to embrace her, kiss her, run his hands all over her, plunge into her sweet folds again and again until the two of them were utterly spent. Yet he left his hands extended above his head, afraid to touch her or even look too closely at her now, knowing that one small difference could shatter the illusion. For a few glorious moments, he was with his love again, and he would do nothing to spoil that feeling.

He moaned her name again and again, half-uttered murmurings of love and devotion spilling from his lips. He was near delirious with rapture, and he struggled for some modicum of control, so he could hold on to the lie and the fleeting joy it brought him. The elf made no sound, save for the delightfully wet noises of her warm mouth sucking and stroking his throbbing erection. Each time he glanced at her, he allowed himself to see Tangi's head bobbing between his legs, her pointed ears tickling the insides of his thighs. "Oh, Maker…" he moaned in a half-crazed whisper. "Thank you for her… thank you…"

The pressure was building rapidly now, and Alistair found it increasingly difficult to maintain control over himself. The strength of his desire for her was too great, and the feeling of being with her again too overwhelming for him to last much longer. Before he could reach his climax, however, the elf was wrenched from him entirely. A moment of cold air against his wet skin made Alistair's eyes shoot open. Suddenly, Anora was on top of him, and his cock was enveloped again, this time deep within her folds. He was too close to the edge to make himself stop as she rode him roughly, her insides squeezing and milking him. He gave a hoarse yell as he spurted his seed into her, immediately filled with loathing. Loathing for himself or for her, he was not sure. And as he caught sight of the elf sitting at the floor by his feet, he felt keenly that it was both, for it was quite clear now that this elf – a serving girl or another prisoner, perhaps – was merely a pale shadow of his Tangerine.

Anora smiled at him triumphantly from above him, but said nothing as she dismounted and lay on the bed with her legs curled to her chest.

Alistair gave her a look of disgust and got to his feet shakily. "I'm sorry," he whispered to the elf woman still seated on the floor. He shuffled to the door. "Let me out," he called to the guards.

"I knew I could bring you to your senses, Alistair," Anora called from the bed.

Alistair turned on the spot to glare at her. "You defile her memory!"

The queen sat up and pulled her robe on. "I did nothing. You defiled her perfectly well on your own," she said, gesturing to the elf.

A surge of rage came over him and he lunged at her with his shackled hands raised to strike her. Anora yelped and pulled the elf woman up to shield herself from the coming blow. Alistair stopped himself at the look of terrified resignation on the elf's candlelit face. He dropped his hands and fell to the floor, suddenly exhausted.

"Guards!" Anora called. "Take him away!"

The soldiers entered instantly, and hauled Alistair back to the storage closet. He sat on the floor for several moments, unmoving, trying – without success – not to think about what had just happened.

He would have fucked that girl senseless if given more time, without any regard for her. He would have let the illusion of Tangerine consume him… No. It had consumed him and he would have ridden it out to its fullest if Anora had not interrupted. He could have stopped it. His hands, though shackled, had not been fastened to the bed. Shame overwhelmed him. But, even moreso, he was overcome with such blinding hatred for Anora. Hatred for locking him away and torturing him. For raping and degrading him. For keeping him from standing beside Tangi in her final moments. It was all he had now. No hope of rescue, no dream of seeing Tangerine again. Was hatred enough to live on?


	8. Chapter 8

Alistair had gradually begun to eat again, his appetite returning as the hatred for Anora festered within him. It was poor timing on his part, however. Perhaps he had scared Anora off for the time being with his near-attack. Or perhaps she was coming up with some new ruse to play with his mind. Or perhaps she was merely busy. It mattered little, for he had barely finished the contents of the basket by the door when the guards came, and escorted him back through the dungeons into his cell below.

A new routine began this time. No torture, no rapings. The only person he ever saw was the helmeted guard who wordlessly emptied his waste bucket, refilled the water bucket, and brought him a few crusts of bread and strips of meat to keep him from utter starvation. Alistair was sure he was being fed even less than before, though he wondered if it only felt that way after having enjoyed real food for a few weeks. The cold, too, seemed especially bitter after being warm and comfortable. The days bled into each other, broken only by fitful dreams of food, killing Anora, and Tangi's terrified face.

At first, Alistair said nothing, afraid that speaking aloud would mean he was going crazy. But as the days surely turned into weeks and weeks, he thought he would go mad if he didn't talk to himself, if only to hear something other than the faint screams of torture in the distance.

"I miss you," he said tentatively into the cold air. His voice was hoarse and cracking from disuse, and he took a sip of water to ease his throat. "I miss you so much it hurts." He wasn't sure whether it was less crazy to talk to a dead woman than to talk to himself. But it comforted him a little, to think that Tangi might hear his words from beyond the Fade.

He stared at his shivering hands, now filthy again. "I thought if I wished hard enough, you might be able to sense me somehow… that you'd know I'm still alive. I thought… I thought I might someday see you again." He gave a bitter, somewhat hysterical laugh. "What was I thinking? Nothing ever works out for me. You'd think I'd learn by now."

It was easier to talk now that he had begun. He had once – what seemed like ages ago – been quite a gregarious person, and after months of no one to truly talk to and weeks of total isolation, the words tumbled out of him in a downpour. "Right now, you would have said something simple but amazing. You always said just the right thing to make me feel better about myself or give me hope when I lacked the strength and confidence. I… I could really use words like that right now." Pulling his knees closer to him, he began rocking where he sat; the constant movement was hypnotic. "I don't know how I can keep going. Most of the time, I don't know why I bother. These past several months have been… 'horrible' doesn't even begin to describe it. But at least I had the hope of seeing you again. When Anora told me you had died… I didn't… I wanted…" His voice broke, and he swallowed. "I don't want to keep living this way. But she was the one who took you from me. Or took me from you. She was the one who… who _violated_ your memory and made me want to do… unspeakable things to an innocent woman." Alistair punched a shaking fist into the stone floor as he spoke. "I want it all to end, but not before I see her pay for what she's done. It's not honorable or noble, but I want to see her die by my own hands before I go. I want to see her suffer… Does that make me a monster? Is that what they've turned me into? If I don't turn into a monster, I'm nothing. Just a shell of a man with nothing left in his life worth living for. Can I even maintain this level of… hatred or vengeance or whatever you want to call it? I'm just so tired and cold and… well, hopeless. It'd be easier to give up on life at this point, wouldn't it? So much easier to stop caring…"

Alistair looked around his empty cell and sighed, wishing he could hear another voice answer him and suddenly feeling lonelier than ever. He lay down on the floor, curled his legs in towards his chest, and pulled the tattered blanket over him. "I miss you," he whispered fiercely, before falling into a dreamless sleep.

o.O.o

The noise of footsteps woke Alistair from a fitful slumber, and he scrambled up onto trembling feet. It wasn't just the guard with his food. There were two sets of footsteps. Anxiety and excitement warred within him. He was desperate for some social contact. A voice, a whisper. Anything. But he knew. No good could come from a break in the monotony.

Two helmeted guards appeared at his cell door. They wordlessly opened the door, grabbed him by the chains between his wrists and pulled him out of the cell.

"Where… where are you taking me?" Alistair stammered. He tried to keep up, but with his bound feet unused to walking more than the few feet between the walls of his cell, the guards ended up dragging him along beside them.

The table. He had nearly forgotten about it in the months since the torture sessions ended, when he was first brought to the upper rooms. The two guards locked him onto the table as before, his legs kicked apart below him. The torchlight in the torture chamber burnt afterimages into his eyes after the near darkness of his cell.

Alistair struggled to keep calm, his eyes tearing up from the relative brightness. "Why?" he asked them. "Why t-torture me now?"

The guards did not answer. But through the haze of his fear, Alistair could hear more footsteps. They drew nearer until several more guards emerged through the doorway, pouring into the room, filling it to near capacity.

They'd taken the air out of the room. They had to have done so, because why was it suddenly so hard to breathe? Alistair gaped, wild-eyed, at the gathering of tin soldiers now surrounding him. Too many. Far too many after no one at all. Little noises rippled around the room. Not his voice, or not just the whimpering noises he now realized he was making. It took a few moments to realize what it was.

They were laughing at him.

Alistair's breaths came in short heaves, and he was sure he would pass out. But he noticed something different. The elven mage with the downcast eyes, in between the guards. He carried with him a small basin of soapy water and a glass jar.

A face. Alistair focused on that face, on the elf who came up behind him with his basin and his jar. His eyes suddenly turned upward, meeting Alistair's gaze with a look of intense sympathy and sorrow.

"What…" Alistair began. And had to try again, because he could not catch his breath. "What are you... g-going to do to me?"

The mage glanced at the guards with a momentary expression of terror then shook his head at Alistair. He was not allowed to speak.

He set the jar down on the table next to Alistair's left arm and set the basin down on the floor beside his feet. There was a washcloth floating in the water, and the elf picked it up, rubbing the cloth between his hands to create a lather. He knelt, reaching between Alistair's legs with the soapy cloth.

Alistair gasped at the contact. Warm cloth met cold skin as the elf gently scrubbed around his groin, up to the tip of his cock, down and around his sac, and finally up between the cheeks of his backside. The elf swished the cloth through the water a few times, wringing it out in between each pass through the water, then repeated the action.

Tears prickled at Alistair's eyes that had nothing to do with the brightness of the room. Though he knew that these preparations would not lead anywhere good – for what good could come from a room of torture? – and though the elf was just doing what Anora must have ordered him to do, the attentions felt like kindness. And his eyes… It was the first time someone had looked at him with true feeling. Not since a long time ago. Not since the Landsmeet, and Tangerine's terrified stare.

The mage was thorough, and it took several repetitions to wipe weeks of filth from Alistair's skin. When he was finished with his ministrations, he stood with a sigh and took a flask and a small metal rod from a pocket of his robes. He poured a small amount of the flask's contents into his hands and coated the rod with a liberal amount of oil.

Alistair felt the trickle of slippery fluid down the crack of his ass and began to panic again. "No… please don't," he groaned.

The mage's eyes, downcast once again, did not meet Alistair's, but he turned his back to the guards and mouthed the words, "I'm sorry."

Slender fingers pressed against Alistair's entrance, massaging gently for a moment before pushing inside. Alistair let out a ragged breath, the soft touch sending warm tingles throughout his body. The fingers flexed and spread, stretching him, before they were removed entirely, replaced with the cool metal probe. The elf let out a tiny exhalation of breath as well, not quite a sigh, and channeled the slightest pulse of lightning magic through the rod.

Alistair gasped, the electricity both stimulating and somewhat painful. The elf began moving the probe in time with the pulses, never enough electricity to cause damage, yet increasing with intensity with each interval. His inner walls contracted and spasmed around the probe, creating waves of pleasure deep within him. Alistair began to moan loudly even as his face flushed hot with shame. He was growing harder with each pulse, despite how frantically he tried to will the erection away. That ripple of laughter was back again, and he was suddenly and intensely aware of the number of guards in the room. Not long ago, he was desperate to be anywhere, so long as there were other people. But at that moment, all he wanted to do was crawl back into the safety of his cell where no one would see his shame and laugh.

The probe warmed under the energy; it was now uncomfortably hot. Alistair hissed at the increasing pain, even as he still groaned at the pulses of pleasure shooting up through his hard length. There was a sudden cool sensation around his entrance, and Alistair gave a soft gasp. In the recesses of his mind that was still a templar, he could sense a bit of healing magic emanating from the mage. Slowly, slowly, the pain began to subside.

He glanced over his shoulder at the mage, who did not look at him as he continued massaging Alistair's insides with the electrified rod. Alistair did not know whether the elf could see his expression, but nonetheless, it was filled with gratitude.

The elf picked up the jar from the table and placed it over the tip of Alistair's swollen cock. After another few minutes of massaging, Alistair shouted wordlessly as he came, and semen spurted forth to fill the small jar. The orgasm was white hot, intense, lasting for several moments before he slumped against the table, utterly spent.

The elf sighed with relief, his task completed. He slowly removed the probe from Alistair's ass, capped the jar, and cast ice magic over it to preserve the contents. Without sparing another glance at the man splayed across the table beside him, he picked up the basin and left the room with two guards, the jar of Alistair's seed tucked safely in a pouch at his waist.

Alistair stared after him for a moment, his head swimming from overstimulation both physical and mental. He barely registered the guards unlocking him from the table, and by the time he focused on his surroundings once more, he was back in his cell, paddocked like the cow he felt himself to be.


	9. Chapter 9

Alistair was alone again, and – again – he wasn't sure how much time had passed. Certainly weeks, but how many? Had they turned into months by now? It had been silent for so long, broken only by the occasional scream of a prisoner in the distance. Alistair felt a kinship with those far-off tortured souls. He screamed too, cursing Anora, the guards, the other inmates. He talked to himself, to Tangi, to the walls of stone, imagining responses. Words were difficult sometimes. Sometimes he stammered and other times he forgot what he was saying entirely, trailing off mid-sentence. Sometimes he sat in his cell, trying to recall a word, obsessing over it until it finally came to him.

They took him out to use the rod on him only twice more. These sessions did not have nearly as many guards in attendance, perhaps bored with torture that did not directly involve them. As depraved as he felt about it, Alistair found he looked forward to the sessions, if only to see the elven mage's face and be reminded he was not truly alone in the world.

He tried to predict when the next session would come, and spent much of his time counting how many times the guard came. The activity was a welcome distraction. The guard came every day, as always, and each time he came, Alistair leapt to his feet in eager anticipation – not only of food, but of the mere possibility of some human interaction.

"Ple-please!" he called between the bars as the cell door shut behind the guard. "Please, just talk to me! Say something, anything! Please!"

The guard did not even turn to look at him, and continued on his way down the corridor.

Alistair ran his hands through his greasy hair as panic and hysteria bubbled up from his stomach. "Stay calm, it's all right, it's all right," he told himself, taking several shaky breaths. "He'll be back tomorrow and you'll just have to try again."

He took a bit of stone from the floor and began scratching another tick mark into the wall. "If today makes another week, that makes it…" Alistair reached for the chunk of bread and tore into it as he tried to do the math in his head. As much as Morrigan had ridiculed him for being stupid, Alistair had prided himself in having a sharp mind. Yet, as time went on without anyone to talk to, he found it increasingly difficult to concentrate. The bread had long since been devoured by the time he could come up with the correct numbers. "A little over two months since they…" He swallowed, recalling the memory. "…Since they took me out the last time? But wait… did I count those marks over there? If I didn't, it could be more like three months. Or… or almost four? No, that can't be right…"

He sat back against the wall and took a few more deep breaths. Two months? Three? It was almost better not knowing how long it had been since he'd last interacted with a person. He closed his eyes and ran his hands over his body, rubbing at first to warm the skin, but allowing them to linger in long caresses. He told himself the hands were someone else's, and the sheer idea of someone else – anyone else – touching him at all made him nearly weep with longing. His cock rose tentatively, the thought of someone's skin against his too tantalizing no matter how cold it was. Alistair took it into one hand and stroked furiously as he cupped and massaged his balls with the other, praying for enough warmth to reach a release. It took a long time – an agonizingly long time – but when he finally came he gave a loud roar of triumph at the rare burst of pleasure rocking his body.

He panted in erratic breaths as he came down from his orgasm, feeling a brief wave of contentment wash over him before he became aware of the cold once more. He opened his eyes, and he was just as alone as he had ever been. Pushing back the hysteria that was now always just beneath the surface of his mind, he curled up again and waited for sleep to come.

o.O.o

Alistair passed the time over the next few days by pacing his tiny cell and talking to Tangi. At times, he found himself obsessively counting the few steps it took to get from one end of the cell to the other. He found the movement to be soothing, and supposed it was better than sleeping all the time as he tended to do.

Footsteps in the hallway made Alistair stop in his tracks. He shuffled excitedly to the bars, the anticipation building as he realized there was, once again, more than one set of footsteps resounding on the stone floor. Someone else. Someone different. Would he see the elven mage again? His hands trembled against the bars.

There were two helmeted guards, like last time. The first one opened the cell door and gestured for Alistair to come out.

"I… I'm leaving?" he asked tentatively.

The guard nodded and gestured again.

The silence was maddening. "Just talk to me, damn it!" Alistair yelled, his voice cracking in desperation.

The guard gave a grunt of frustration and went toward him. Alistair stood stock still, unsure whether to back away from even this threatening interaction. A small club connected with the back of his head, and he crumpled, his vision tunneling into blackness.


	10. Chapter 10

His head ached sharply as he woke, and it took some time for his eyes to adjust to the light. It was not a brightly lit room, wherever he was, but after months of nothing but dim torchlight, it took several moments for his eyes to stop tearing up long enough for even a small peek past his eyelids. He lay upon a soft rug on a stone floor, and something was different about him that he could not immediately place. Gingerly opening his eyes further, he realized he was in the upstairs bedchamber, with its canopied bed and curtained wall of windows. And it suddenly occurred to him what it was that was different about him.

He was clean. His hair and beard had once again been cut short, and his skin was stark white. That meant that some servants’ hands had been all over him while he was unconscious, Alistair realized, and he nearly wept with the loss of feeling that touch. He hugged his knees to his chest and rocked where he sat, trying to keep the ever-present hysteria at bay.

He sat there like that for hours, waiting for something to happen. Finally, Anora entered, carrying with her a small basket of fresh bread and meat. For weeks, Alistair had been plotting various ways he would kill her with his bare hands, but at the sight of her – the first face he had seen in months – and the small feast she held, his resolve shattered. A deep hunger, both physical and mental, consumed him, and he shook with want.

She set the basket on the writing desk and turned to him. “Hello, Alistair,” she greeted blandly.

Words not his own. A voice not from his lips. He knew he should hate the sound of her, but it was like a sip of water after days without. He wanted so much more to quench his intolerable thirst. “A-Anora,” he stammered, feeling almost as if this could not be real. “How… how long…?” He reeled from the shock of speaking to another person, his mind rendered blank and empty.

“Almost seven months, I believe,” she replied, sitting primly in the chair beside the desk.

More. He had to hear more. “And… and what did you do with… with the stuff you collected from me?”

“I was trying a few experimental fertilization techniques,” she said as if speaking about trying a new vintage of wine. “You were not performing to task last time, so I thought I’d try to take you out of the equation completely. However, trying to conceive a child artificially was… inefficient.” She sighed dramatically. “We shall see if you have learned to behave yourself a bit better than last time. Do as I say, and I will give you company and food. Defy me and it’s back to constant solitude and starvation. Do you understand?”

He drank in her words and nodded eagerly. He could not face the isolation again. “Yes! A-anything you want.”

“Good.” She strode to the bed and disrobed. Alistair gaped at her sudden nakedness. Merely seeing her face was more stimulation that he’d had in months. To see her body in its entirety… He found himself backing away from her. As much as he wanted to feel her touch, he was strangely terrified. It was too much. Too much.

She sat on the bed and beckoned him to come nearer. “You will pleasure me,” she commanded. “If I am satisfied with your performance, you may eat. If you try to hurt me or try to eat before I am satisfied, the guard will punish you.” She nodded toward the door. Alistair had been so focused on Anora that he had not noticed the guard enter. The guard was a woman this time – he could tell by the shape of her breastplate – and he stared at the whip she held in her hand. “After you eat, I will allow you to rest. And if you’ve the strength, we can try to conceive a child.”

“I…” Alistair hesitated. “I don’t know if I’m… I’m ready to do all that.”

“I can always leave.”

“No!” Panic seized him. “N-no, please don’t go!”

“Then do as I say.”

His breath came in short bursts, making him giddy and light-headed, but he managed to get to his feet. He shuffled to the edge of the bed. Anora lay down with her legs spread, and he knelt shakily between them. He placed his hand carefully, almost reverently, against the milky skin of her thigh, and he sighed at the feel of soft skin against his. As he drew his face close to her, the heat of her sex nearly drove him to madness, and the need to taste her overwhelmed him. He pressed his lips upon her, and – oh, Maker, the taste of her! All hesitation washed away from him, his mouth reveling in the taste of something other than stale bread and stagnant water, his cheeks warming with the touch of skin belonging to another being. He lapped at her hungrily and she moaned in appreciation, her folds saturating in sweet, slippery juices. His hands roamed her body, the chains clinking loudly as he stroked every inch of flesh he could reach. His own arousal sprang forth between his thighs, the reality of another person’s touch so much more intoxicating than the fantasy of a few days prior.

What was only moments ago too much for him to handle was now not enough, and he wanted more. Much more. His body throbbed and ached with desire. He wanted to press himself against her, feel her hands all over his body, her mouth on his cock already so slick with pre-cum. He wanted to fuck her senseless, now now now, though even that seemed like too little to sate the roaring beast within him. Fear, however, kept him at his task – fear that she might leave him all alone again if he did not do exactly as she said. But the wanting – oh, Maker! The wanting! – was too much, and even as he suckled and nipped at her sex and the small bud of nerves within, his hands wandered to his cock to stroke furiously in time with his ministrations.

So close. It would only take a few strokes to get him to climax, he was so hard and _ready_. But just as he neared release, a sharp crack resounded in the room, and Alistair cried out in surprise at the burn of pain against his backside.

“You take your pleasure when I say, and not a moment before!” Anora snapped, pushing herself from the bed and glaring down at him. “You will not waste your seed in my presence.”

“Please, Anora,” Alistair begged, his erection having diminished somewhat at the sting of the whip, but the aching want was still painfully present. “I need… I can’t stand… please…”

“Finish with me first, then. Perhaps your desperation will encourage you to move things along faster.” She settled back down onto the bed and waited.

Alistair gritted his teeth, a flash of the old hatred breaking past the intense need of her company. He plunged in again, his tongue laving over her clitoris with renewed vigor. Anora mewled approvingly, opening herself wider to his attentions. Her folds were moistening rapidly, and Alistair, wanting to feel as much as he was allowed, penetrated her with one finger, then two, massaging her and opening her wider. She was so warm and wet, he felt he might go mad from the desire to be inside her, to feel that heat encasing his swollen member. He had three fingers inside her now, even as he licked and sipped and slurped at her. Her back arched and her hips bucked against his face and hand in wild abandon. And though his mouth and arm tired from the effort, he kept up the pace, praying that she would come soon, so that he might finally, finally feel her in full.

And come she did. She gave a shrill cry of “Oh, Cailan!” as her body spasmed and tensed. Alistair slowed his attentions as she began to relax, and watched the aftershocks of her orgasm ripple across her body. His hands itched to go to his red and thrumming cock, and it was only the threat of a whipping and the promise of sex that stilled them.

It took a few moments for Anora to regain her composure. She sat up, her normally perfect braided buns coming loose in frayed tangles. “Thank you, Alistair. That was lovely,” she said. “You may eat now.”

In the haze of his desire, Alistair had nearly forgotten about the basket of food. At the mention of eating, however, the Grey Warden hunger roared to life. He stumbled hurriedly to the basket, shoving chunks of soft bread and succulent meat into his mouth as soon as his fingers could reach them. His eyes watered with the effort of swallowing so much at once, but he did not slow his pace. In the far reaches of his mind, he knew his stomach and bowels would make him regret the speed and quantity of his feeding, but for now, he could not bring himself to care. He could barely even taste the food before it went down, but merely reveled in the relief of not being hungry. The fullness of his belly was an alien and almost painful feeling, but – oh, thank the Maker – at least he wasn’t hungry.

He licked the remaining crumbs and juices from his hands, tasting Anora’s own juices mixed in. He looked at her hopefully, his cock still painfully erect, even while neglected. He didn’t want to beg. He had already done enough of that today, though he had no illusions of dignity now, after what had nearly been a year of incarceration.

Anora watched him with an expression of mild disgust. “There is a basin of water there in the corner. Wash up before you come back to bed.”

It was easier to breathe after taking a few large gulps of the clear, crisp water in the basin, as the liquid eased the passage of the lumps of food through his esophagus. He rinsed off his hands and mouth before shambling back to Anora. The fullness of his stomach had begun to make him drowsy, but he had slept enough in the last several weeks to fill a lifetime, and he _needed_ to feel her.

“Do you require some rest?” she asked. Her tone made it perfectly clear that she wasn’t concerned about his well-being, but rather his ability to carry out his task.

He shook his head vehemently. A hunger of a different sort – consuming both body and soul, and persistently present for so long – clawed at his insides, and it took all his restraint not to fling himself at her and dry hump her mindlessly.

“Very well,” she said after a short pause. “You may come to me. Missionary will be fine for now, but I warn you that you will be whipped mercilessly at the slightest hint of a threat to me.”

“Yes, I understand,” he agreed hastily.

Alistair approached her slowly, but with obvious eagerness. He crawled onto the bed over her and placed his chained hands onto the covers carefully above her head. He settled on top of her, and moaned at the first contact of her pert breasts against his chest, the tickle of the soft curls between her legs against his throbbing erection. He let some of his weight press upon her, and his mind reeled with the simple ecstasy of flesh upon flesh. He moved against her slowly, pressing his hard length into the valley of her folds, generating heat and wetness and glorious, slippery friction. Though Anora’s expression appeared impatient, the noise she made at his movements hinted at approval.

The sensation of her touch was intoxicating, but not enough. No, not nearly enough. “Please, Anora,” Alistair panted. “I can’t reach us. I… I want to be inside you.”

Her mouth curled into a smirk, and she lowered her hand to his shaft. As she took hold of him, his skin sang with triumph. He had never before been so _aware_ of each brush of skin, each fleeting touch. She expertly guided him into her, and he groaned loudly as he sank into her, inch by inch. _Oh, Maker… Oh, thank you, sweet Andraste, thank you…_ his mind chanted, his breath already ragged with the intensity of his desire.

Though Alistair told himself to take it slowly, it had been too long since he had felt the simplest touch of another person, and she was so warm and _tight_ around him. The rhythm he began was quick and brutal. He pounded into her, taking her much in the same way he took in his food, desperate just to quell the raging hunger. With the pace he set, he only hoped to last a few minutes at most, and it wasn’t long before he gave a strangled cry as his climax overtook him. He tried to cling to the waves of pleasure, knowing how rare such moments were in his life as it was now, but they were gone almost as quickly as they had come. Shaking with exhaustion, he collapsed on top of Anora, still rejoicing in the contact of their bodies.

Anora did not find the closeness nearly so appealing. “Get off of me, Alistair,” she commanded.

He rolled off of her unceremoniously, and he felt his body cry out in the loss of her touch.

She curled up her knees as she had months before, lying in a ball looking up at the ceiling. Alistair said nothing this time, and took comfort that he was still close enough to feel the heat from her flushed body. After a few moments, she sat up and got dressed.

Alistair sat up sharply. “You- you’re leaving?” he asked, and was unable to keep an edge of panic out of his voice.

“Of course.”

“But… no!” _Don’t leave, please please please don’t leave me alone again!_ His mind begged when his mouth refused to. “Just- just give me a few minutes. Just a few minutes, and I’ll be ready again. Please!” He reached out and grabbed her wrist.

Another sharp crack echoed in the large room and a stinging welt appeared on Alistair’s shoulder. He cried out and dropped her wrist. “Please…” he whimpered. “I don’t want to be alone.”

Anora gave him an indifferent look. “I’ve dallied with you long enough for today. I will return tomorrow.” With that, she left the room, the guard following close and locking the door behind them.

Alistair threw himself at the door and railed at it. “Come back!” he cried. He beat his shackled hands against the door for several minutes before collapsing in a hysterical heap on the floor. If his hair hadn’t been cropped short, he might have begun tearing it out.

He wasn’t sure how long he lay there on the floor, his chest heaving in dry, rasping breaths. Trembling and light-headed, but feeling somewhat calmer, he got to his hands and knees and crawled to the bed. He climbed into it, and arranged the cushions into a long shape. He lay down and pressed himself against them, closing his eyes and imagining that they were a person. The smell of sweat and sex still hung lightly in the room, and this, coupled with the softness of the bed and warmth of the room, lulled Alistair into a deep, but uneasy sleep.


	11. Chapter 11

Anora returned the following morning, as promised. Alistair was so relieved that she had not abandoned him again that he obeyed her orders to the letter, without comment. Thus began another routine. Anora came each morning with a small amount of food. Alistair was allowed to eat after pleasuring her with his mouth and fingers. Then, after he had eaten, they had sex. After a few days, the shock of being able to touch another person had worn off, and Alistair began to last longer, and even came to enjoy their coupling.

He knew he was supposed to be hating her. He still hated her, in the back of his mind and the depths of his heart. But Anora had quickly – and, Alistair suspected, quite deliberately – become his entire world. Hers was the only face he ever saw, the only voice he ever heard. She was his only source of food and companionship. The bread and meat, the occasional fruit and cheese she brought were not near enough for a grown man Alistair’s size, but the clawing starvation had ebbed to a dull, tolerable ache.

Days and weeks turned into months, until Alistair’s time in isolation became a foggy haze of memory. His mind was clear again, but it shut out the ordeal. All he knew was that things were better now, with someone to see and talk to. Even if it was Anora. He would do anything not to go back to solitary confinement. So he made himself forget that she had taken away his freedom and his only love, his dignity and his pride. He made himself forget that there was anything before her and small baskets of food and sex. Because he could not bear such loneliness again.

Anora entered the room one morning with her basket of food, as usual. It had been nearly a year – ten months, maybe? – since Alistair left isolation. At her arrival, he immediately went to the edge of the bed and and sat on his heels, waiting patiently for her to undress and lie down.

She set the basket down and approached him, taking off her robe as she did so. “There’s a good man,” she said with a small smile. Alistair preened with the approval.

She lay down on the bed and spread her legs before him. Alistair positioned himself between her thighs, and began licking her sex, his tongue delving into the folds that quickly became saturated with juices. The taste of her made his mouth water. Though he was not starving, he was quite hungry; yesterday’s fare failed to satisfy him as much as usual. The flavor of her arousal was now so inextricably linked with being fed that tasting her made him hungrier, compelling him to bring her to completion all the sooner.

As soon as she climaxed, he looked up at her expectantly with his face still covered with her, waiting for permission to eat. After a moment, she glanced down at him and nodded. He leapt to his feet at her cue and shuffled to the basket. Though he ate much more slowly now than he had in the past, it still took only minutes for him to finish the basket’s contents.

“My, hungry, aren’t we?” Anora commented with a mild chuckle.

Alistair shrugged. “Shall I wash up now?”

Anora sat up and, to his surprise, shook her head. “No, I am taking my leave.”

He blinked. “Already? Why?”

“I no longer require your services, at least in that regard.” She pressed a hand to her belly and gave him a triumphant smile. “I am with child.”

“You’re… w-what? With…?” Alistair gaped at her.

“The midwives think I am nearly two months pregnant now.” Anora spoke excitedly, almost to herself. “I have sent for a healer from the Circle who will care for me from now on. She can ensure there are no complications from the taint.”

Alistair continued to stare at her, stunned. He remembered that, what seemed like a lifetime ago, he used to dream of becoming a father. He had yearned for a simple life, with a loving wife and a small house filled with the laughter and pattering feet of children. For the first time in months, he remembered that there was a world outside his gilded bedroom of a cage, and a life of freedom he should have been living. Familiar pangs of hopelessness bit at his insides. “Will I… will I be able to see the baby?”

Anora gave a short laugh, a sharp, mirthless thing. “What a ridiculous thing to ask. Of course not. You are not a father, Alistair. You are a donor, nothing more.”

“You say ‘donor’ like I impregnated you willingly.”

She smirked. “Didn’t you?”

Alistair could say nothing. He wanted her, didn’t he? Oh, how he had wanted her. Each day since he had been released from solitude, he rejoiced in her company. He’d begged to be inside her, to plow into her with sweet abandon, to feel something other than his own hands against his flesh. He had laid with her, to chase away the loneliness and despair that always threatened to consume him in her absence. Even now, after remembering that she was using him, he wanted her to stay, and feared what would happen now that she didn’t need him for his royal seed. “What’s to become of me, then?” he asked quietly after a long pause.

Anora shrugged. “It matters little to me. I will leave that to the discretion of the guards, I think.”

Alistair shook his head and grabbed the hem of her sleeve. “No. No, please. They’ll rape and torture me, Anora. Or worse, they’ll lock me up all alone again!” Panic gripped him. “I can’t go back to that, Anora! Please! Let me go. I promise you’ll never hear from me again. Or kill me, if you’d prefer. Please, please just kill me!”

She wrenched her sleeve out of his hand. “You presume too much, Alistair. I still have use for you. You must be kept alive and close by in the likely event that someone will question my child’s royal blood.”

“Please, no! No more of this, Anora, please!”

Anora ignored him and rapped on the door. “Guards, I will take my leave now. Do with him what you will.”

Alistair lunged toward her in desperation. Whether he intended to attack her or clutch at her to stay, he was not certain. But a guard stepped through the open door and blocked him from reaching her. “Anora!” he called again, but she did not answer him. His cries were instead greeted with a club to the back of his head, and the tunneling darkness that followed.

o.O.o

It was much as he had feared. When he awoke, he was back in his dungeon cell. Part of him hoped for torture, as it would mean that he would at least hear the voices of the guards jeering at him. But the days again passed without any human contact, save for the lone guard who changed his buckets and brought him food.

Alistair resumed pacing the length of his tiny cell and counting the times he saw the guard. There was little else he could do to pass the interminable hours alone. For the first time in nearly a year, he thought of Tangi, and considered talking to her again. But overwhelming shame filled him at how easily he had been cowed into submission, made a pet for Anora’s pleasure. And though she had long since passed away, Alistair felt that this, above all, had been the ultimate in betrayals to his Tangerine. He felt unworthy to speak to her. Instead, he tried to recall his templar training, in hopes the mental clarity might stave off the loneliness and hysteria that he knew could consume him at any moment.

Once again, the days blended together into one long stream. There was little to distinguish one day from another, aside from some minor differences here and there. The time he heard a line of guards marching in a distant hall. Screams, louder than usual, echoing from a nearby chamber. The day he felt a strange, yet familiar sensation tingling in his spine.

The meditation turned out to help greatly, allowing his mind to remain focused for longer than it had during his previous solitude. Though the longing for another person’s voice and touch were still ever-present, the intensity of that longing had dampened somewhat. Yet, as the long weeks surely bled into months, his ability to ignore his loneliness waned. His mind wandered to half-remembered conversations with people he had nearly forgotten. His six months with the Grey Wardens before Ostagar, and the brotherhood he shared with them. Arguments with Morrigan and drinking contests with Oghren. Easy chatter with Leliana and Wynne. Yet still, after all this time, thoughts of his beloved were met with Tangi’s horror-stricken face.

It was becoming more difficult to pace his cell. The months of starvation were taking its toll on his body, rendering him weaker than a newborn kitten. However, he forced himself to maintain the activity, though in shorter spurts, to make sure his muscles did not atrophy from disuse.

Not for the first time, Alistair found himself amazed at the human will to live. It would be so much easier to stop eating, to allow himself to waste away into an eventual, blissful oblivion. But every time the guard came with the lump of bread and meat, he devoured it on the spot, unable to waste the food that would quell the hunger within him. Something in him wanted to live, but why? There was nothing left for him. No one coming to his rescue, nor anyone who even knew he was still alive. And though his hatred for Anora had been fully renewed, he now knew that his previous dream of killing her with his own hands was impossible as well. He could barely walk the three paces across his tiny cell – what hope did he have of mustering enough strength to attack her and succeed? There was nothing, except this monotonous existence, and yet something kept him eating and drinking and huddling for warmth to survive.

He cursed that part of him. Maker’s breath, he wanted to die.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story diverges from here. You are currently reading the Dark Version, which continues in the following chapter. If you would like to continue reading with the Light Version, please follow this link: http://archiveofourown.org/works/606329/chapters/1092994. Links will also be posted at the beginning of the next chapter for your convenience.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story diverges from here. This is the Dark Version. If you'd like to continue with the Light Version instead, you can find it here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/606329/chapters/1092994, which skips you ahead to Chapter 12. Chapters 1-11 are identical. This is different take on the story, but occurs in the same world, so there are some spoilers for the Light Version ahead.

A little girl skipped along the corridors of the Royal Palace, waving at the servants as she passed. No one stopped her; indeed, she could get away with almost anything she wanted. But there's little to do for a princess, even less when she has no friends, and getting into mischief was no fun if there wasn't the threat of getting into trouble. So she spent her days silently exploring the massive palace grounds, finding hiding spots and hidden passageways. The ancient palace was filled with secret rooms, tunnels, and bridges. Some passageways led outside the palace walls or to other buildings, while others still led to rooms long forgotten. It was a good thing she loved exploring so much, because there was really little else for her to do. But today, she was doing her second favorite thing. Today, she would be spying on her mother.

Mother was something of a mystery to her. Her nursemaid, Shala, told her that all people must love their mothers. But Mother was hardly around to love. She was always, always working. And even when she wasn't, she never played or read or even chatted.

"Do I have to love her?" the little girl had asked Shala. "I don't think she loves me."

"What a terrible thing to say!" Shala scolded. "Of course she loves you, Lo! She… just has a hard time showing it, is all."

Lo wanted to believe that was true, but she was pretty sure it wasn't. Grown-ups always thought she couldn't tell when they were lying. But she could tell, sometimes.

As she reached her mother's study, she began creeping slowly along the walls. There was a spot behind some potted plants just outside the door that she'd hidden in before, a spot where she could hear everything without being seen. She couldn't see too much, but she didn't want to be seen. She ducked behind the greenery, trying not to breathe too loudly.

"…a disaster!" Mother was saying loudly, almost shouting. "The bannorn are calling for proof of her paternity at the next Landsmeet!"

"I did warn you, Your Majesty," a small, quavering voice replied. Lo recognized it as belonging to Elim, an elven servant who could do magic, though he always refused to show her any. "He's been in solitary for years."

"You didn't think to take him out once in a while?"

"Apologies, Majesty, but the guards have. Every few months or so. A little exercise for a few days, better food..." Elim gave a sigh, barely audible. "We tried to have him interact with some of the other prisoners, but he's withdrawn, distant. And then it's… difficult getting him back in his cell afterwards."

They were silent for a while, and Lo knew that meant that her mother was thinking. "Take him to the upper room we used before. The storage room with the window. Let him have some sunlight and fresh air. Try to fatten him up. And, Maker's breath, bathe him. The Landsmeet is in a month. Perhaps he'll be sane enough to make a statement then."

"Of course, Your Majesty."

"Now, go. I have a meeting with the Warden Commander, and I just saw her cross the courtyard."

A shuffle of carpeting under stout leather shoes. "Yes, my Queen."

Elim passed Lo on his way out of the study, but he did not see her, with his eyes always cast downward. She always thought he looked a bit sad.

There was a sudden tickle in her spine, and Lo nearly let out a giggle. Instead, she absently scratched at the spot on the small of her back, just as she spotted an elf in platemail round the corner at the end of the corridor. Her dark brown hair gleamed with a golden glow under the sunlight from the hallway's many windows, and her forehead was etched with swirling tattoos. A giant sword, almost taller than the soldier herself, was strapped to her back, and it glowed blue with power. Lo could not help the tiny intake of breath at the sight of this petite warrior, and thought to herself that she had never seen anyone look so magnificent.

The warrior stopped just outside the study, right in front of Lo's hiding place. She knocked on the door frame, but looked around in confusion for a moment. Her gaze finally settled on Lo, and their eyes met through the leaves.

"Come in," Mother called from the study.

The warrior blinked at Lo for a moment before striding, business-like, into the study. "Your Majesty," she greeted with a tense voice.

"Warden Commander," Mother replied. "Or should I call you 'Hero'? Do people still call you that?"

The elf seemed to ignore Mother's question. "Let me get right to the point. The Wardens of Ferelden are still rebuilding their ranks after the Blight. As many of your citizens still do not trust the Orlesians, I am trying to rebuild from within instead of relying on Orlais to send us further reinforcements. I will be recruiting in Denerim over the next few weeks."

Mother made an irritated noise. "Then recruit. Why must I be informed?"

"Because I would like to search for potential Wardens within the City and Royal Guards. With your permission, I'd like to set up a small tournament of sorts to determine the best warriors. At Fort Drakon, perhaps?"

"Out of the question," Mother snapped. "You will disrupt all security operations within the city. And for what? Some childish notion of honor and glory?"

"Loghain didn't seem to think it so childish when he insisted he be made a Warden."

"You will not speak my father's name!" Mother shouted, and Lo hugged herself at the sound of it. "I have not forgotten that it was you who allowed him to die eight years ago."

"And you murdered Alistair. I guess that makes us even."

Lo gasped loudly at the word "murder", and immediately clapped her hand over her mouth, too late. She heard her mother get up from her desk, and winced.

"Loghaine!" Mother shouted, even though she was standing over Lo now. "What are you doing there?"

Lo stepped out from behind the plants and sighed. "Spying."

"I'm working." Mother put her hands on her hips, making her look more than a little foreboding. "Where is Shala? She's supposed to be watching you."

"Probably at the nursery," Lo supplied. "She thinks I'm napping."

"Useless woman," Mother muttered under her breath. Then aloud she told Lo, "Go back to the nursery. Tell Shala I wish to speak to her before dinner."

Lo dipped into a curtsy and started down the hall.

"You might as well leave too, Warden," Lo heard her mother say to the other woman in the corridor. "Send someone else to ask next time. I find myself only too happy to say no to you."

Lo turned the corner but stopped to wait. She smiled when the Warden appeared only a moment behind her.

"Oh!" the warrior said. "Princess Loghaine. I thought you were headed back to the nursery."

"I am," Lo replied. "I'm just doing it very slowly."

The woman grinned. "I see."

"Are you really a Grey Warden?" Lo wanted to know.

She nodded. "My name is Tangerine. You can call me Tangi."

"Tangerine?" the little girl giggled. "Like the fruit?"

"Yes, like the fruit."

Lo smiled. "You can call me Lo. It's really Loghaine, but 'Loghain' was my grandfather's name, and I don't want to be an old man."

Tangi chuckled. "That's reasonable. Nice to meet you, Lo."

"Is it fun being a Warden?"

"It can be," Tangi replied. Her smile fell suddenly. "But it's hard sometimes. It's a lot of responsibility, and you usually lose friends along the way."

"Oh," Lo said seriously. Then she shrugged. "I don't really have any friends, so maybe it wouldn't be so bad."

The Warden's eyes softened with sympathy. "Me neither, now."

Lo wasn't sure how to respond to that.

They continued walking down the corridor together in silence, with Lo trying to increase the distance between them and her mother. After a little while, she noticed that Tangi was staring at her. "Why are you looking at me like that?" Lo put a hand to her face to check if she had something stuck on it.

Tangi smiled, though Lo thought that it looked much more sad than happy. "You remind me of someone."

"Who?"

The Warden shook her head. "No one you need to worry about. But… you have the same eyes," she said, her voice soft, like a caress. She stopped at the door to the courtyard. "Now run along. Your nursemaid is probably looking for you."

Lo nodded and ran a few steps before stopping. She turned around. "Tangi," she called, and the Warden stopped halfway out the door. "Did… did my mother really murder someone?"

There was a pause, longer than a normal pause should have been. "I'm sorry you overheard that. For a moment there, I forgot you were outside."

"Did she?"

Tangi sighed and approached her. She laid a gauntleted hand gently on Lo's shoulder. "I don't think that's a question I should be the one to answer. I'm sorry."

Lo nodded, used to being denied the answers to her many questions. "Maybe I'll ask my mother one day." She thought of her mother's temper and shuddered a bit. "When I'm braver."

Tangi gave that not-happy smile again. "Maybe."

She turned back to the door and, sparing a final look for the princess, exited to the courtyard.


	13. Chapter 13

Footsteps. Always footsteps. He couldn't remember the name for the sound anymore, but he knew what they were. It was the only way he knew time kept going, rather than the same moment suspended for all eternity. Though, sometimes it felt that way. One moment, frozen. Always the same, with stone and cold and pale orange light. Itching, unseen rashes that he knew were there from the hunger that never went away. And silence. Always silence more often than footsteps. He couldn't remember what was before silence. There were many things he forgot. He forgot so many things, he couldn't remember what he forgot. And he, too, was forgotten. Forgotten, by himself, by the world outside his tiny home of two buckets and a rag that had once been a blanket. He was once a cow, milked until his masters got what they wanted from him. Put to pasture, though he forgot what pastures were. He had a name once. He was sure if he heard it, he would remember, but he never heard it, so he never remembered.

The tin man remembered, though. If not his name, then his existence. The tin man always came with the food and the fresh buckets. One for water, one for piss. Must not forget which was which.

They took him out, sometimes. How often, he could not say. He came out of his tiny home with tangles of hair down to his chin and a beard just as long and a smell that made his captors gag. When he returned, his hair was short and his beard was gone and he was clean, so he could get dirty again.

He didn't want to leave anymore. Everything past the bars was too bright, too loud. He cowered in the corner when they came to get him, shaking from head to shackled foot as they carried him up to the baths upstairs. But then there was water and heat, and though it was all terrifying, he wept and wept, not out of fear. There were voices and faces that were not his. There were hands on his skin that were not his. It tingled and sang in his skin, this thing called touch that he had forgotten.

They let him stay in a room with light. Just a few torches, but it made his eyes burn, and he wept again because it hurt, and he could not open his eyes to see the brightness that he suddenly remembered. The brightness that used to be everywhere in the time that was before. That time he was now sure had only been a dream. He couldn't sleep in that room with the light. The light was there just past his eyes, and though he was there for days, he couldn't and he didn't sleep. He was afraid the torches would go out and the darkness would be darker as it always was after seeing light. He didn't miss the sleep. He was always sleeping in his tiny home.

The tin men spoke to him. The sound of others was always frightening and foreign at first. Difference in ears that only heard sameness. And he understood the words, for the most part. But sometimes it just sounded like noise because his words had been rusting in his mind for so long. He heard the words "crazy" and "mad" often. He knew what they meant because there were moments in his cell when his mind was clear, and he heard the words from his own mouth, talking about himself.

And food! They gave him more food! He always remembered that there used to be more in the time before here, but forgot the names of things that weren't meat or bread. Sweet things with juice inside. Bitter things, bright with colors that he also struggled to name. He sometimes got a round thing with sweet pulp on the inside. It was a bright color… orange. It was orange, but it wasn't called an orange. He couldn't remember what it was called. The skin was thin and bitter, and he ate that too, because he could and he was hungry.

The taste reminded him of brown hair and panicked eyes.

This time away from his tiny home – a "vacation", he sometimes called it when he remembered the word, and laughed – always lasted only a few days. When the tin men came, he screamed and railed against the walls. Sometimes they had to hit him so he would fall asleep, but they dragged him away wide awake just as often. And then the darkness was darker and the silence more silent, but at least the cell smelled better than before.

Then time froze again. And he paced and screamed and talked to ghosts that reminded him of sweet orange pulp. He counted his fingers and toes, though sometimes he made mistakes, and had to recount so he could be sure he hadn't lost one. He rocked on his feet while standing, or while sitting, or while gently tapping his head against the stone. Some days, not so gently tapping, such that the elf with the magic had to come take the pain away. Pain was good sometimes. It told him he was real, and made things not the same because the elf would come, and that was different. He could see a face and hear a voice, and remember the world held other people in it.

He stopped counting the days a long time ago. His cell wasn't big enough for all the tick marks.

o.O.o

Footsteps again. More than two feet. His hair wasn't down to his chin yet, but maybe hair sometimes grew slower. Or maybe time really had frozen. But it must have been time for… What was it again? …Oh, yes, "vacation". He giggled but did not feel happy.

The footsteps were nearer, and he was suddenly afraid. What if someone takes his blanket? What if he forgets which bucket is for water and which is for piss? The darkness will be darker when he gets back and he'll remember what light and sound were, and it's much too painful to remember just to forget all over again. He huddled in the corner.

"Oh, fuck the Maker," one tin man cursed under his breath. "Not this again."

"Come on out," said the other. "It's hard enough with you babbling nonsense. I can't take the kicking too."

He stood, but it was difficult because he shook all over. "One is not for water," he told them.

"Just keep moving," the first tin man said and pulled him through the cell door.

They took him to the baths as usual. The elves scrubbed him, and tears fell freely from the joy of warmth and touch. There were strange expressions on their faces, but he could not remember what they meant or how to read them.

The guards took him down the corridor and turned the corner, but it was the wrong one. His usual cell with the torches was in the opposite direction. "The r-room with the light is there, not here," he insisted.

They ignored him.

Wherever they were going, it was much farther than he was used to. His shuffling feet stumbled often, and he fell on his face more than once. His legs ached from the new effort of more corridors and stairs. By the time they reached their destination, the guards had been carrying him between them for some time.

There was a door at the end of a hallway. The door had a hatch at the bottom, and for some strange reason, he knew what lay beyond it.

The tin men tossed him inside the room and locked the door behind him. "Too bright!" he yelled, shielding his arms with his chained hands. Light was everywhere. He didn't know that light could be everywhere at once, steady, unflickering. He cowered like that for a long time, his eyes unable to adjust after so long hidden underground. His eyes watered until the tears streamed down his face.

After a time, most of the light went away, and he could open his eyes. Afterimages danced in his vision and, try as he might, he could not blink them away. He could see, however, and looked around. New and different. Old and familiar. He knew this place. The cot and blanket were there, as he expected. The basin and the chamberpot. "Water and not for water," he said in a satisfied tone. It was important to remember which was which.

There was a hole in the wall. There was a name for it that he could not remember. He could not walk due to the effort of the trek to get there, but he crawled on all fours to reach the hole with bars across it. He pulled himself up to look through it.

The world was enormous. And he suddenly remembered that there was life beyond his tiny home of two buckets and a rag. He remembered the openness of the blue above and air that did not smell of suffering. He gulped the air as if it were food, swallowing hard to taste the freshness. But it was too much, and he could not stare out for long. Too open, too much activity below that boggled a mind so numbed by ages of nothingness. Too many people, though they were barely close enough to see. Even the idea of that many people, when two was a stampede to him, was overwhelming. He backed away, terrified he might be sucked out into that void of air and space and life.

He pulled the blanket around his shoulders. He twitched and trembled as he lay down onto the cot, a dry sob escaping his lips at the pain of remembering. It did not take long before blissful sleep took him.


	14. Chapter 14

Days passed. He began to remember what day really meant, with a ball of light in the sky ( _Yes! "Sky!"_ ) to remind him. The first couple days were agony, the room filled with such brightness that he was sure he would be blinded by it. He covered his head with the blanket for most of the day, and it was still too bright. He remembered there used to be baskets of food by the door, and when he found one waiting for him there, he devoured the entire contents in one sitting, the blanket still draped over his head.

In fact, the hatch opened no less than three times a day, each basket full of fatty meats and soft breads and the sweet things that burst with juice at each bite. His stomach was small now, though, and could not keep down his bingeing. He threw up most of what he ate the first day, until he learned some restraint, and portioned out each meal to small bites to have throughout the day.

When he removed the blanket on the third day, he found that he could actually see, though everything still looked bright, and his head ached if he stayed in the light too long. He marveled at the colors around him, even in his plain little room. It was all so much more vibrant than in his cell.

He was suddenly aware of a slight tingle in his spine that grew with intensity with each passing second. The hatch opened, then. He frowned in confusion. A basket had just been sent in only a while ago.

"Hello?" a little voice greeted from beyond the door.

He blinked. It did not sound like a guard. "He-hello?" he responded.

"Oh, there _is_ someone in there!" It sounded like a girl. A child, in fact. That he remembered that these things existed was almost as shocking as her presence itself.

"Who?" There was more to the question, but he forgot how to phrase it.

"My name is Lo," she said in a cheerful voice. "What's yours?"

He did not answer, struggling to remember.

"I said, what's yours?" she repeated.

"I don't re— …reme…" The word was long. For a moment, he forgot the word for not forgetting. "I th-think I forgot."

"Oh! I didn't think names were things people could forget."

"Cows don't have names," he said. "Or, th-this one doesn't."

There was a pause. "But you're a person, not a cow," Lo explained patiently. "People usually have names."

"They m-milked me, so I must be a cow," he replied, though he wasn't so sure now.

She giggled. "I didn't think cows could talk."

"I didn't talk. Not for a long time."

"But you're talking now," she offered. "So maybe you're not a cow anymore."

He blinked again, a small area of his mind clearing at the revelation. Maybe he wasn't a cow. He still didn't think he was a person, though. "I think…" he said slowly. "I think my name was A-alistair."

There was a soft gasp. "Alistair?" she repeated. "Really? Aren't you supposed to be dead?"

Her words triggered a memory, long buried. A trip on a carpet, a terrified face. "Yes."

"But you're not?"

"I…" The child asked difficult questions. "I d-don't think so." He would be free of suffering if he were dead. Or he was in the Void. He wasn't sure that the latter wasn't true.

Lo sighed with relief. "That's good. My mother didn't murder you, then."

Alistair didn't know what to say to that. He understood the words, but not why they were in the same sentence together. He supposed he misunderstood.

"Why are you in there? Can I look inside?" she asked, lifting the hatch door higher.

He suddenly remembered that he was naked. "Wa-wait!" He hastily pulled the blanket over himself and wrapped it around his waist. His face flushed hot. Shame. Oh, he had not forgotten shame.

A rosy face with blond hair appeared in the hatch doorway. When she saw him, she squeaked, and the hatch closed with a snap. After a moment, she appeared again. "Sorry," she murmured. "That was rude."

It took a moment for him to understand what had happened. "Am I… scary?"

She frowned. "No." She sighed. "Well, maybe a little. You look like just bones."

"Oh." His eyes darted away. It was easier to talk to her when she was just a voice. His stomach twisted with anxiety.

"Are you a prisoner?" Lo pointed at the fetters at his ankles.

He nodded.

"Why?"

"I… I don't know," he answered slowly.

"Oh." She chewed her lip. "Maybe you did something bad?"

"I must have," he said in a soft voice.

"You seem nice to me."

He looked down at her earnest face and said nothing. But a long-buried part of him almost felt like smiling.

They watched each other for a moment before Alistair finally spoke. "Wh-why are you here?"

The girl blushed. "There are secret passageways in the palace," she whispered conspiratorially. "I found some, and sometimes when I'm exploring, I see where they go. One of them ended just down the hall. I felt a tickle in my back, and I followed it here."

"A ti… ti…" The word was difficult.

"Tickle," she supplied. She paused, thinking. "I get it sometimes when we pass the Warden base. Or when one of them visits. Like earlier this week."

Alistair frowned. Something was strange about what she said. Her words pulled at all kinds of memories. Painful ones of before. It was so hard to think, his mind clawing at the perpetual fog enveloping his thoughts. He wasn't even sure he wanted to get at those memories. It was easier if he didn't remember the life he used to have, what felt like centuries ago. Easier to pretend it had been a dream. "Isn't there a tin man?"

"Tin man? You mean, a guard?" Lo shook her head. "No. The door's locked, though. Sorry."

He just nodded.

"I should go. My nanny's probably looking for me again. It was nice talking with you." She smiled.

"Yes, nice," he replied clumsily.

The hatch door closed gently, locking shut.

A surge of panic – dread at being alone again – swelled within him. "Wait! Lo!"

"Yeah?" her muffled voice responded from beyond the door.

"Do you… maybe... Come back sometime?"

"I'll try!" Her tiny footsteps faded into silence behind her.

Alistair was exhausted from the effort of conversation after so long without, but he felt some of the fog lift from the corners of his mind. He wasn't sure the girl actually existed – in fact, he guessed he probably hallucinated the whole thing, because the idea of a child in a prison was ridiculous. Nevertheless, he was grateful for her little voice, piercing his silence.


	15. Chapter 15

The sun was high in the sky when Alistair awoke to the sound of a key rustling in the doorway. He sat up and hugged his legs to him as he sat on the cot. He was a little curious, but more anxious than anything else; he had learned long ago that breaks in routine often led to pain and humiliation.

A person walked through the door. Not a man. Woman. Alistair hadn't seen a woman in a very long time, but he recognized this one. He remembered that she was once all that existed. Then she went away, and the silence came. Her name came more easily to his thoughts than his own had. "Anora," he murmured.

A tin man walked in behind her and shut the door. "Hello, Alistair," Anora greeted. "It's been a long time."

Tears welled in his eyes. "W-will the silence end now?"

Anora frowned. "I don't understand."

Alistair frowned as well. "I gave you p-pleasure, and I couldn't have mine until you had yours," he babbled. Talking was a little easier now, but he still struggled to find the right words. "I thought… I thought I pleased you, but then you were gone. And then silence and darkness and buckets and rags." He looked up at her hopefully. "But you're back now. So maybe the silence will end now. I can please you again." He reached for her.

She smacked his hands away. He didn't know what her face meant, but the look on her face made him feel dirty even though he was clean. "You really have gone mad, haven't you?" she whispered, almost to herself.

He wasn't sure whether he was supposed to respond, so he stayed quiet.

"He seems to understand us pretty well, though, Your Majesty," the guard spoke up.

"That's something, at least." Anora took a deep breath. "Alistair, listen carefully. There will be a Landsmeet soon."

Landsmeet. Alistair recoiled from her upon hearing the word, nearly backing off of the cot. Landsmeet was pain. A fold in the carpet, a sword meant for him, his first and last time seeing blue-green eyes cry. "No," he murmured. "Not the Landsmeet."

She pinched the bridge of her nose. "Yes, the Landsmeet. It takes place in a month. I need you to make an appearance."

"An appearance?" he repeated. He understood the word, though the implications on him took a moment to take hold. "I'll be appearing… in front of people?"

"Yes, unfortunately," she said in a strained tone. "I'd avoid it if I could, but it's no longer possible to avoid the inevitable. So, if I may be frank, you will need to act sane. You are of no use to me if you blather like an idiot in front of them."

"But…" he protested. "You just said I've gone mad."

Anora sighed. "And therein lies the problem."

She was silent for a while, and Alistair wasn't sure whether she expected him to say anything. However, he was hungry for more conversation. "What do you want me to do?" he asked, more to hear her speak again than out of curiosity.

"Tell the bannorn that you pledged to give me an heir in exchange for your life," she instructed. "Do this, and I will ensure that you live the rest of your life comfortably."

"Com… fortably? With… people?" he asked. He couldn't imagine what that would be like. He knew he used to live with people, before. But he forgot how it felt not to be alone. The thought thrilled as much as it terrified him. "The silence would end?"

Anora nodded, seeming to understand him at last. "Correct. No more silence. You would still be within my reach, of course. But you could live amongst people, if you wished."

"I wish," Alistair said hurriedly. "I wish for that. I'll say anything you want."

"Good," she said, sounding satisfied. He remembered that tone of her voice, at least. Even after all this time, he preened under the approval. "The guards will take you out of your room once a day to exercise you. I will send Elim to you tomorrow to help you practice what you will say to the bannorn. Do you understand?"

He nodded. A thought came to him, deep beneath the fog of his mind, and he was struggling with wrenching it loose. It felt important.

She turned to leave. The guard unlocked the door and stepped outside.

The thought came loose. "Where is it?"

Anora turned, halfway out the door. "Where is what, Alistair?"

"The heir. The one I'm supposed to say I gave you. Where is it?"

There was a pause. "At home," she replied, her words clipped. "She is taking her lessons."

His hands began to tremble. "She?"

Anora crossed her arms across her chest. "Don't think you can see her, Alistair. I told you once before, you were a donor, nothing more. She is _my_ daughter." She turned to leave again.

"What's her name?" he asked softly, his voice cracking.

She stopped in the doorway once more, but did not turn to look at him. "Loghaine." And the door shut behind her.

"Loghaine…" he murmured. A deeply buried part of him grated at the name, though he could not remember why, and the irritation was gone almost as soon as it had come. There was something in the fog again. His eyes wandered to the hatch in the door. Another thought wrenched free, and suddenly there were tears in his eyes that would not stop coming. Blond hair, amber eyes. Anora couldn't keep him from seeing her because he'd already seen her. "Lo!" he gasped.

Anora claimed Lo as hers, but he felt strongly that she was his too. There was something – someone – that _belonged_ to him. Someone outside these walls. A deep longing that had persisted the entirety of his life came sharply to the fore, and he remembered a word. Family. He collapsed onto the cot, sobs wracking his body. "I have a daughter!"

o.O.o

Alistair had trouble sleeping that night. His mind swam with images of blond hair and ruddy cheeks and curious eyes that he achingly recognized as his own. For the first time in years, he wished for something other than his basest needs, something more than food or warmth or the sound of another's voice. His eyes shot to the hatch every time it opened, and he was almost disappointed each time it inevitably turned out to be another basket of food.

Elim arrived the next morning as promised, and spent the better part of every day afterwards sitting and talking. Alistair was not wholly surprised to see the mage with the downcast eyes again. Now that his mind was clearing, he began to suspect that the elf was almost as much a prisoner as he was. Elim's shackles were invisible to be sure, but something held him there despite the shame that kept him from meeting anyone's eyes.

The light, decent food, and daily conversation were doing wonders for Alistair's state of mind. He could think again, though he still had difficulty remembering words and names he used to know. His newfound clarity was as much a blessing as a curse, however. He would wake in the dark of night, screaming, certain that he was back in the solitude of the dungeons. It wasn't until the sun rose and cast pale gray light across his room that he could breathe easily. He thrashed in fevered nightmares of faceless men made of metal, who pierced him from behind again and again with swords of flesh, who jeered with hollow laughter as he screamed for mercy. He woke – hard and wanting, but shuddering with shame and self-disgust – after visions of Anora straddling him on the canopied bed. He wasn't sure which dreams were worse.

He still dreamt of darkspawn from time to time. Those dreams didn't bother him anymore.


	16. Chapter 16

A month passed quickly. Time was fleeting when there were thoughts and activities and sunlight to measure it by. Soon, it was the day before the Landsmeet, and Alistair paced his room nervously. He had gotten better at speaking since he came into the upper rooms, to be sure. But that was only in comparison to half-sentences and disjointed ramblings. And as for speaking in front of people – politicians and nobles, no less… Well, he seemed to remember he wasn't very good at that even before Anora shut him away. He sighed and scratched absently at a tickle in his back, pushing the thought away. He had accepted long ago that he would never be free, but it didn't make it any less painful to think of his life before.

The hatch rustled a bit. Alistair stomach growled in expectation. Though he was well-fed now, his stomach remembered all too well how little it used to have.

"Alistair?" a small voice called out.

His heartbeat quickened. "Lo?" he replied in an excited whisper. Then, suddenly remembering his nakedness, he scrambled to the bed and threw the blanket over his waist.

He had the blanket arranged just before her face peeked through the hatch. "Hello," she greeted. "It's been a long time, hasn't it?"

He nodded and hesitated before answering. He'd had very little practice speaking to anyone besides Elim, and the understanding of who she was made him even more nervous. Over the past month, he had thought of numerous things he wanted to say to her – _To my daughter, my daughter! I have a daughter!_ – but try as he might, he could not remember a word of it. "Y-yes, it has."

"You look better," she said brightly with a grin on her round face. "Fuller."

He nodded again. "They… they've given me more to eat," he said, adding, "Not just bones anymore?"

"Not just bones," she agreed. She cocked her head to one side. "But you should probably eat some more. You're still _really_ thin."

The corners of Alistair's mouth twitched ever so slightly upward. "I will."

"Good." She glanced over her shoulder then turned back to him. "I can't stay long. I think the guard will be coming back soon with your lunch."

"Oh."

"But," Lo bit her lip, as if unsure whether to finish her sentence. "But I wanted to come back. You looked so lonely before. I wanted to come sooner, but Mother has been watching me more closely lately. I'm sorry."

Alistair shook his head. "No, it's okay. I'm just… I'm just glad you came."

She smiled. "Me too. Maybe I can come back again soon."

"I would like that," he replied in a broken whisper. But he frowned. "Except… except the Landsmeet is tomorrow. I'm not sure what will happen to me after that."

"What happens at the Landsmeet?"

_Landsmeet is pain_. He shuddered. "I'm supposed to give a st-statement."

"Oh!" she said, her eyes wide. "I thought only important people gave statements. Are you important?"

Alistair looked down at his hands and the shackles around his wrists. "No. Not really important to anyone anymore."

Lo began chewing on her lip again. "I'm sorry. Did I say something bad?"

"No, it's nothing," he tried to assure her. He chastised himself in his head. He was terrified of scaring her off, of continuing his lifelong streak of ruining everything that had ever meant something to him.

"Maybe I'll see you there," Lo was saying hopefully.

Alistair blinked at her. "Where?"

"At the Landsmeet, silly." She sighed. "I didn't want to go, but Mother said it has to do with me, and that I should act like a proper princess and do what I'm told." She brightened a bit. "But if you'll be there, maybe it won't be so bad."

He nodded, though he felt a shiver of apprehension flit over the skin of his back. "I hope so."

Lo glanced over her shoulder again. "I have to go. The guard's coming back." She smiled at him. "See you tomorrow?"

He nodded. "Yes. Tomorrow."

She gave a little wave before closing the hatch with a snap.

The basket of food appeared shortly after she left, but it was a long while before Alistair went to retrieve it. He meant to tell her that he was her father. Every second of their conversation, it lingered at the back of his throat, waiting. He supposed it didn't really matter that he didn't get to say it. One way or another, she would know tomorrow.

o.O.o

Dawn the next morning found Alistair still pacing his little storage room of a cell. He was exhausted, but his mind raced with anticipation. His insides warred between hope and resignation. Though he would never dream of being truly free again – not like before – he had within him the dangerous stirrings of hope, for the comfortable life amongst people Anora promised, for a chance to get to know his daughter. He struggled against those stirrings. Though he had relinquished control of his life to Anora long ago, he still knew she could not be trusted to keep her promises. The thought of what she might do instead chilled his blood.

Elim arrived a few hours later, after Alistair had returned with the guards from a trip to the baths. Instead of coming in alone as usual, the elven mage had the guards with him. One of the guards produced a ring of keys from his belt. He picked out a small key and grabbed the shackles at Alistair's wrists.

Alistair stared, feeling strangely nervous. "You're… you're taking them off?" he asked in an stunned whisper.

Elim nodded. "You can't go into the Landsmeet in chains. Besides, it'll be impossible to put these on while shackled." He gestured to a small pile of dark blue fabric he brought with him.

It took a moment for Alistair to remember the word for them. "Clothes?" He gaped. His eyes widened further as he looked more closely at the fabric. "Is that… is that _silk_?" he said incredulously.

"Her Majesty felt that if you are claiming royalty, you should at least look the part," the elf explained.

"It's just that I haven't worn clothes in years and…" Alistair trailed off, distracted by the sudden release of weight from his arms as his manacles fell away.

His arms felt oddly light. He gazed at the newly revealed skin, callused and worn from years of constant rubbing. He touched it gingerly. Even callused as it was, his skin still tingled with newfound feeling. After a moment, the fetters were gone too, and Alistair could not stop the tears welling in his eyes. It wasn't freedom. He knew it wasn't. And if he was able to put into words what he felt, he would have said it didn't feel like being freed.

It felt like being forgiven.

Elim helped him into the clothes: a loose silk tunic with matching trousers, and a pair of smallclothes. The garments felt somewhat confining after so long, especially the smallclothes that seemed to hug too tightly when he was used to everything hanging freely. Alistair plucked at the cloth, feeling uncomfortable even while basking in the soft warmth of the fabric.

He felt something else, a sense of… something, long forgotten. The word had to be dug out of the still somewhat foggy layers of his mind. And as he looked down at himself, covered for the first time in what seemed a lifetime, it struck him. Dignity. He trembled and found he had to sit down on the cot, overwhelmed as he was by forgotten emotions.

Elim seemed to understand, and stood silently at his side as he waited for Alistair to gather himself. He waited until Alistair's breath steadied before he spoke up again. "You should put these on too."

The elf produced woolen socks and a pair of Ferelden-made shoes. Alistair put them on without comment.

"When you feel ready," Elim continued, "we will walk to the palace. The Landsmeet will start soon."

Alistair nodded, though he felt anything but ready. The guards pulled him to his feet, and they stepped out the door and into the corridor together.

The four of them walked down the hall, passing the bedroom where Lo was conceived. They turned a corner and stopped in front of a carved stone panel in the middle of the wall. Elim reached up and pulled a notch in the stone, and he swung the panel open like a door. In the dirt smeared in the doorjamb, there was a child's handprint.

They walked down a tall, narrow flight of stairs that opened to a passageway, dark compared to Alistair's little storage room. The long tunnel of stone was lit only by sporadic torches. The pale, flickering light reminded Alistair of his cell in the dungeons, and it took all of his willpower not to start screaming or giggling. The fact that he didn't know which he would do made him wonder if he had fully regained his sanity yet.

Alistair shuffled along the tunnel, his legs unused to being able to step more than mere inches at a time. He looked around, trying to stave off panic by occupying his mind with other thoughts. It was difficult to remember his time as a child now, but he imagined that if he had found a passageway like this one as a boy of six or seven, he would have been terrified. That Lo gladly made the trip through the tunnel twice made Alistair's heart swell with pride.

They finally emerged from the tunnel in an atrium. Alistair gaped at the _green_ of the plants for only a moment before the guards pulled him towards a hallway. As they walked towards the throne room, Alistair looked in awe at everything. Ornate doorways, colorful tapestries, bowing servants… so many things he had forgotten. He realized, belatedly, that he was now outside the prison. He was now part of the world beyond his barred window. He had great difficulty in wrapping his mind around the very concept, much less the reality of it.

They arrived at an anteroom adjoining the throne room. Alistair sank into a plush sofa, his feet aching from so much walking in shoes that pinched, his senses overloaded by colors and sounds. Though he had not been completely sequestered these past few weeks, he had only ever seen and heard the sights and sounds of Fort Drakon. There was so much _more_ in the world than his little corner of it. He knew this, in the corner of his mind he dared not venture into, but seeing all that he was missing for himself… It was too much. His hands shook as he ran them through his close-cropped hair.

"Alistair?" came a tiny whisper.

He looked up to see Lo watching him, just feet from where he sat. Her brow was furrowed with worry. She was dressed in a poufy purple dress, with her hair in curls. "Lo…" he breathed.

"Are you okay?"

She was so close, he could have touched her hand. He wanted to embrace her, to hold her in his arms, to feel what it was like to have family who didn't shun him or send him away. But he feared what the guards might do. He feared what she might do. Most of all, he feared what Anora would do, to both of them. He took a deep, shuddering breath. "I think so. Just… just nervous."

"It's okay," Lo told him quietly, giving him an encouraging smile. "I'll be here, so you don't have to be nervous."

He felt the corners of his mouth twitch upwards again, like the last time he had seen her. "Thank you."

She nodded, still smiling. "But I can't really talk anymore. I'm not supposed to know you."

"I understand," he replied.

"Loghaine!" Anora's voice boomed in the small room. Both Lo and Alistair jumped. "Step away from him. He's dangerous. Stay with Shala."

Lo turned from him and ran to an olive-skinned elf in the opposite corner of the room.

Anora strode up to him. "What did you say to her?"

"N-nothing," Alistair said. "She just said hello."

She raised an eyebrow at him, but did not press the issue. "You're looking better," she said, her voice relaxing into a bored tone. "Do you remember what you're supposed to say?"

He nodded.

"Good." A fanfare sounded just beyond the door to the throne room. "Do not ruin this," she commanded before stepping out of the anteroom.

He did not voice them aloud, but he had his doubts about how well this Landsmeet would turn out even for Anora. He was supposed to be dead. Could she really just parade him in front of the bannorn without retribution? And, for the first time, he realized he knew people who might be present. Their names escaped him – an old man who he once wished was his father, a younger one who was his uncle in every way but blood – but he knew they would almost certainly be at any Landsmeet.

It was too much to hope for. Almost too much to even think about. But for one shining second, Alistair allowed himself to imagine a life of freedom.


	17. Chapter 17

There was a lot of shouting going on in the throne room. Alistair wasn't sure what was being said, but the banns and arls and arlessas sounded angry. And the time for his statement was nearing. He was alone in the room now, except for the guards; even Lo had been taken into the Landsmeet. The knot in the pit of his stomach grew until it was all he could do not to run from the room. He took a deep breath. If there was a chance that he would never have to go back to that dungeon, he would take it. Whatever it took. He was not going back to darkness and silence.

The guards pulled him toward the door. They opened it a crack, and he could hear Anora's voice ringing throughout the open hall.

"Princess Loghaine _is_ of royal blood, carrying the Theirin line into my family and my reign," she proclaimed. Alistair could just see her gesturing grandly toward Lo, who sat in a chair off to her right. "My father was the dearest friend to King Maric, such that the King considered my father family. With my daughter, I have forged in blood what Maric and my father forged in friendship!"

"That's grand talk, Your Majesty," a man's voice piped up from the gathered nobility. "But where did this supposed royal blood come from? All of Maric's heirs are dead."

"Not so," Anora declared. She turned towards the door to the anteroom. "Come forward."

His trembling hands clenched into fists, Alistair stepped into the throne room.

Maker, but there were a lot of people. They filled the room, even in the balconies above. Alistair tried to focus, to concentrate on the mere act of walking to Anora's side. The guards followed just behind him, in what Anora had hoped would appear to be an entourage rather than an armed escort.

A low murmur rumbled throughout the room as the bannorn looked to each other in confusion. Alistair reached Anora, but could not bring himself to face the crowd. He stared at his shoes, at Anora's shoes, anywhere but at the people before him. Hundreds of faces stared at him, appraising him, judging him. They didn't recognize him.

"Who is this? Maric's long-lost cousin?" someone joked, too loudly. A hum of laughter flitted across the room.

Anora shot a brief glare at Alistair in a silent command to speak.

Alistair took a deep breath, willing his hands to stop shaking. He lifted his eyes, fixing his gaze upon a spot just above the heads of the gathered nobility. "I…" He took another breath and tried again. "I am Alistair Theirin. I–"

The bannorn erupted in shock and incredulity. "Is this a joke?" he heard someone shout.

"A blatant lie! You executed him yourself!" another voice cried out.

"That looks nothing like him!" insisted another man.

"Silence!" Anora shouted, her voice piercing through the din. "Come to order!" The bannorn slowly calmed until only a faint muttering could be heard in the room. "Please continue, Alistair."

The disruption unnerved him. He couldn't do this. There were just too many. Too many people, too many eyes fixed on him. He could not control the tremor in his hands.

He caught a glimpse of Lo. Their eyes met, and she gave him the same encouraging smile as before. He took another deep breath. Perhaps he couldn't tell the bannorn. But he had to tell her.

"My name is Alistair Theirin," he began again. "I was a Grey Warden. Though Queen Anora had ordered for my execution during the Landsmeet eight years ago, I b-bargained for my life. She would allow me to live, so long as I provided her with a royal heir. Princess Loghaine is that heir." He turned completely to face Lo and told her in a choked voice, "I'm your father, Lo."

The bannorn burst once more with a cacophony of shouts and cries. Alistair barely heard them, watching his daughter's face for a reaction. Lo's eyes were wide, and her mouth had dropped open with surprise. They stared at each other for a moment, until Lo's face broke into a large grin.

"Really?" she asked, laughing.

He nodded. "Really."

She covered her mouth with her hands. Whether she was laughing or crying or both, Alistair could not tell. He felt like doing both himself.

Suddenly she gasped and pointed. Alistair turned to see what caught her attention.

A fight had broken out at the rear of the throne room. There were too many people to see what was happening, beyond flashes of steel and spurts of blood. A mighty bellow of a woman's voice rumbled through the chamber, knocking back the guards several paces before she dispatched them. She whipped around to face the gathering.

His breath left him. It was a ghost, working her way toward Anora. It had to be a ghost, though her form was solid. Her eyes were aflame with murderous rage as she pressed forward, forward, forward.

"You… MONSTER!" she shrieked, the cry piercing the air, and everything was suddenly silent except for the echoes of her achingly familiar voice.

Chestnut hair, glowing gold in the faint beams of sunlight. Blue-green eyes filled with tears and fury. His mouth was suddenly filled with the taste of sweet orange pulp. A name burst forth from the last of the fog, suppressed so he wouldn't have to suffer the pain of her loss any longer.

"Tangerine," he breathed.

He was hallucinating. Dreaming. Maybe he never even left his dungeon cell, but had succumbed to delusions long ago. She could not be real.

"What did you do to him?!" She was facing Anora now, glaring daggers up at her. "I didn't even recognize him! All this time! What did you do to him?!"

But Anora was reacting. Everyone was reacting to her. He did not trust his eyes, but he trusted theirs. Anora shouted back at her. Noblemen with vaguely familiar faces grabbed her by the arms and shoulders, keeping her from reaching the Queen.

"Calm yourself, Warden," the older man at her left intoned.

"Eight _years_ , Eamon!" the ghost snarled. "She deserves to die!"

"T-Tangi?" Alistair was shaking all over. He crumpled into a heap on the floor, his legs giving out under him.

"Alistair!" Tangi cried. She threw off the men at her arms and ran to him, throwing aside her helmet and gauntlets as she pulled him to her.

"But you're dead, you're dead!" he babbled. "She told me you were dead! She told me you were dead and I _believed_ her!"

She embraced him. Her platemail was digging into his bones, but he didn't care. He could be crushed there, and he wouldn't care. She smelled like armor and rain. "I know, I know…" she murmured into his hair. "Me too…"

He kissed her, hard, their mouths crashing into each other in desperate affection. The chaos around them blurred away. There was still no air and he still couldn't breathe, but it didn't matter, because he had his Tangerine and she was _real_.

They broke apart, gasping for breath. Hope for freedom, hope for life swelled in his heart. "Please, Tangi, don't let her take me back!" he begged. "It was a lie, I was a prisoner from the start! I never made a deal with her. Please, please, don't let them take me back there!"

Tears streamed down Tangi's face. It was only the second time he saw her cry, but he couldn't remember what her eyes looked like not crying.

Before she could answer, more shouts and accusations erupted from the bannorn. They had all heard him. Anora cried out desperately over them, "He was a danger to the crown! He threatened treason!"

Something broke within Alistair at the sound of her voice, spewing more lies. He whirled to face her and lunged, his hands clamping around her throat. Tangi leapt to her feet and drew her sword as the guards moved in to protect the Queen. "You lied to me!" Alistair screamed as he twisted his fingers around the gulping under his skin. "You told me she was dead! You _lied_ to me!"

Anora's hands flailed at him as she struggled for breath. He held tight, made stronger by rage and adrenaline and Grey Warden blood, despite years of neglect. "Please, Al-istair," she croaked.

"You wish for _mercy_?" he cried in disbelief. "After all you did to me, you expect _mercy_?" His hands squeezed harder. Anora's eyes began to lose focus.

"F-Father?"

Alistair looked up. Lo cowered in a nearby corner, staring at him with wide-eyed terror. Her face was white as parchment, and she shook from head to foot. There were fights all around them, but her eyes were locked on him and his hands.

He loosened his grip for a moment and heard a ragged gasp beneath him.

In his split second of hesitation, guards closed in around him, pulling him off their Queen. Alistair looked around in a panic for Tangerine. Guards had poured in from around the palace, overwhelming even the impossibly strong elf. She still fought, slicing through her foes around her in sweeping arcs of her greatsword. Alistair struggled against the armored soldiers around him, but his rage had abated, leaving him helpless against several healthy men.

A single arrow sailed through the air. Its aim true, it found its mark with terrible ease. Her helmet discarded, it pierced Tangi's skull and she tumbled forwards mid-swing.

Tangerine, Hero of Ferelden, Commander of the Grey, was felled by a single arrow.

"Tangi!" Alistair screamed. "Tangerine!"

He knew, this time. He knew that it wasn't a lie. The pain was visceral, almost animal in its baseness. Pain had never lied to him. Tears did not fall from his eyes. He only moaned her name over and over. He had come to expect no less from his life.

"Lock him away!" Anora commanded the guards with a voice made of sand. "Lock him so deep into Fort Drakon that he'll never be found!"

"Mother, no!" Lo screamed. She darted after the guards. "He's my father! You can't!"

Anora snatched her by the arm. "He tried to kill me, Loghaine!"

Lo shook her head and pulled. "He was going to stop! I saw him!"

Anora glared at the guards. "Go!"

"Mother, please, you can't do this! Father!"

Alistair, stunned with grief, only had time for a single glimpse of his daughter by the time he was aware of what was happening. "I love you, Lo!" he called out to her as the guards pulled him away. "Don't ever forget that!"

Just outside the hall of the Landsmeet, a gauntleted fist connected with the back of his head, plunging him into darkness.


	18. Epilogue

He awoke, still in darkness, with only the distant torchlight to see by. It was cold in that cell with nothing but walls of stone around him. He still wore his silk clothes, and he laughed mirthlessly at the ridiculousness of it. His mind swam with images of his lost love, pierced by an arrow, and his daughter's panic-stricken eyes. And yet, he laughed. Alone again, with a tattered blanket and two buckets. One was for water. It was important to remember which was which. He waited for the footsteps to come.

o.O.o

Even in prisons, there were stories. The prisoners of Fort Drakon told a tale of a bastard prince who was locked away, never to be seen again. Some said he was alone for so long he forgot who he was. Others said he turned into a beast, howling into the darkness. Still others said he was so broken with grief and despair that he just stared, catatonic for days on end, his mind having completely left his body.

The princess followed the stories, as soon as she was old enough. She didn't explore anymore. She searched, hunted, for the man who had been her first friend and her father for an hour. She shouldn't have stopped him. She knew that now. And she would make it up to him, someday.

Until then, she wandered the prison, waiting for the tingle at her back.

 

~end~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I found this version to be both difficult and rewarding to write, and I hope you found this to be an interesting read. I would appreciate any reviews/feedback/comments you have to offer. Thanks again.


End file.
